


With Hearts More Proof Than Shields

by Lena7142



Category: Captain America (Movies), Dragon Age (Video Games), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Apostate Loki, Dragon Age AU, Epic, F/M, Ferelden, Grey Wardens are pretty much SHIELD, M/M, Partially Illustrated, Templar Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena7142/pseuds/Lena7142
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after being dug out of the ice in the Frostback Mountains, Templar Captain Steve Rogers is sent on a mission of reconnaissance to the Korcari Wilds after rumors of an apostate. But with evidence of a Blight surfacing to threaten Ferelden, Steve is forced into a series of strange alliances and undertakes a far greater quest...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Lise](http://veliseraptor.tumblr.com), for beta-ing, encouraging, and generally being responsible for the existence of this fic. Without her enthusiasm, this would never have gone beyond an idle comment on tumblr. Additional tidbits and art for this fic can be found on [my tumblr](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com), typically tagged under "spacevikings in thedas."
> 
> This is my first fic on Ao3 and in either of these fandoms. Huzzah.
> 
> EDIT: For any MCU-fandom readers not terribly familiar with the Dragon Age setting, [this map](http://static1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100721040626/dragonage/images/8/80/ThedasMap.jpg) will probably help give you a sense of the geography, and [the Dragon Age Wiki](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki) has pretty comprehensive information on anything you might care to search for.

The sun glared blindingly off the snow, filling the world with light. It was a cold light though, with none of the warmth of the glow of the home forges, and Hadren stamped his feet in the snow in a futile attempt to warm up the flow of blood while he reached up and adjusted his goggles. A breeze blew down the mountain face, sending clouds of powdery snow from the top layers hissing and whispering over the terrain, drifting against stones and trees and stinging what little skin Hadren and his team had been foolish enough to leave exposed to the elements.

‘A fool’s expedition’ the Assembly had called it. And maybe it was; Hadren had been called as much by many. But in the end, they’d been the fools who’d afforded his patron their permission, if not their blessing, to send Hadren and his team up topside. The job was to search for a rumored Lyrium vein high up in the southern reaches of the Frostback Mountains, inaccessible from present mining tunnels. A week later, though, they’d unearthed very little save for snow, snow, ice, and more snow.

A fool’s expedition indeed.

“Grundun!” Hadren shouted, pulling a heavy scarf away from his face so as not to muffle his voice. It echoed off the side of mountain, though with a different pitch than it would in the depths of Orzammar’s caverns. Condensed breath froze into ice crystals in his beard almost instantly, and he grimaced. “Anything in the western quadrant?”

A heavily bundled figure some six hundred paces away looked back toward him and waved his arms laterally in a negative signal. Under all the layers he was unrecognizable as Hadren’s nephew, which suited him just fine as it spared him grumblings of nepotism for bringing a young and inexperienced relative on a potentially lucrative expedition.

Hadren cursed under his breath. “All right, boys,” he bellowed, turning toward the rest of the company. “Let’s move on up to the next formation!”

A spread out line of dwarves began to converge as they slogged up through the snow toward a somewhat sheer rock face. It was a metamorphic formation, layers upon layers of varying minerals warped and folded in on each other, from what he could see beneath sheets of blue ice. It was as likely a place as any to maybe find traces of Lyrium among the other deposits. Or so he hoped. If the expedition failed to find any ore at all, well... Hadren would not look forward to going back to Orzammar empty-handed.

The snow was light and powdery, but wading through it was much like wading through deep water in the way it tired the legs. The uphill trek didn’t help either, and it didn’t prove long before he was heaving for breath, throat and lungs stinging from the frigid air. Hadren cursed the topside under what little breath he could spare, doubling over for a moment’s rest...

A loud crack resounded to his left; it rang through the air and shuddered through his feet and he instinctively braced himself with his arms above his head to protect from falling rock. But above him spanned only a chilling expanse of pale blue sky. Hadren blinked, then turned toward the sound.

There was nothing. Just snow and rock and ice and more Stone-forsaken snow.

Nothing.

Not even Grundun, who had been standing there not long ago.

Hadren felt his stomach flip. The wind sent more snow whispering down the slope, but there was no other sound; no sign of Grundun in the white expanse between where Hadren stood and the distant conifers of the treeline. “Grundun?” he called out again. The other members of the company paused.

No answer returned, and Hadren felt a chill he knew wasn’t from the blasted cold. Exhaustion forgotten, he began to run through the snow, adrenaline powering his legs as he waded to where he’d last seen Grundun. On approach, he could see a shadow in the snow -- no, a gap, a hole. His mind raced but his legs stilled as an ominous creak groaned through the ground beneath him.

Oh.

Not ground then. Ice. The snow covered a plane of ice here and the crack before must have been --

“Grundun?” he shouted out yet again, carefully edging himself toward the break in the ice, wondering what lay beneath. Not cold water, at least -- the ground was too uneven for any of the frozen mountain lakes, and he would have heard the rushing of a buried stream. A cavern, then? An abyss?

Some of his worries were allayed by a muffled and distant voice calling back: “Uncle?”

Right. Not an abyss then. The ice made another protesting noise and Hadren dropped down on to his belly as he scooted forward the rest of the way, not taking any chances with falling through. You didn’t get this problem with good old solid stone, he reflected miserably. “Up here. You all right down there?”

He reached the edge of the hole and peered in. It was a crevasse -- a long and narrow gash in the ice that ran a good twenty feet deep and seemed to plunge into the side of the mountain. A crust of ice had formed over the top, hidden by snow, and Grundun must have fallen through it. There wasn’t much to be seen, and only with the light filtering through the hole allowed Hadren to make out his nephew’s shape at the bottom of the crag. “I’m fine,” Grundun called back, voice reverberating against the walls of the ice. “But there’s something I think you should see down here!”

Hadren’s heart leapt. “Lyrium?”

A pause. “I... I don’t think so. I’m not sure. But there’s something else... Uncle, you should still come down here.”

Hadren frowned at that, but then other members of the company caught up, and soon he was busy with rigging up a harness (easier said than done with cold-numbed fingers), and then being lowered into the crevasse through the gap in the ice, loaded with an extra harness and tether to bring Grundun back up as well.

Grundun didn’t look up at him though, as his boots hit the ice at the bottom of the chasm. His eyes were fixed on something outside the shaft of light, in the dim blue shadows.

“I’ll give you credit, you managed to find the one spot out of the wind to take a nice rest in,” Hadren said, pulling away his goggles and blinking as his eyes adjusted from the blinding white to the blue murk. “So? What is it?”

Grundun nodded, and as Hadren peered through the gloom, he managed to make out a shape...

A body.

He made a face. “Looks like someone wasn’t as lucky as you to have friends with harnesses,” he commented.

“ _Look_ at him, Uncle!” Grundun insisted.

And Hadren did. It was too tall to be a dwarf -- elven or human, and he felt inclined to think the latter, though he didn’t have enough experience with non-dwarves to be sure. It was remarkably well-preserved; looking at the body alone, he’d say it had been dead only hours, but the amount of ice built up over it and the crust over the chasm suggested far more time had passed. The man might have only been sleeping, if not for all that.

Grundun brushed heavy layers of hoarfrost away from the man’s shield, revealing a symbol of a sword surrounded by fire. “He’s a Templar,” Grundun announced.

“He’s a popsicle is what he is,” Hadren muttered in response. “Though we should follow the crevasse further in. It might cut deeper into the mountain, and we’ve better odds of finding a vein without all this snow over---”

“Uncle!” Grundun cut him off, eyes wide. “Uncle, look!”

“What?” Hadren snapped, failing to understand the boy’s obsession with the corpse. Until his gaze was drawn to where Grundun pointed.

Most of the body lay encased in ice, a clear block of it surrounding the head. Well, mostly clear. A small cloudy patch marred the ice near the body’s lips.

Which faded.

Then, after several long moment, returned.

Hadren blinked, leaning closer, his own eyes confirming the impossible.

_Breath._

“Stone preserve us,” he muttered. “He’s still _alive_.”

 

 -o-o-o-


	2. Into the Wilds

_Two Years Later_

 

“Is there anything else I can get for you, love?” The innkeeper asked, beaming down at him from behind the bar as she wiped off a stein with a rag. “Another tankard of ale, perhaps?”

Steve looked down at his current tankard, which was still about a third full. “No, thank you, I think I’m all set,” he answered with a tired smile.

“Very well then. You just let me know if you change your mind!” She replied, giving the bar in front of him a light pat. Her smile was kind and matronly, but the self-possessed set of her shoulders brooked no nonsense, and Steve had no doubt that she was the sort of woman who was just as capable of bodily hauling belligerent drunks out of her inn as she was of mothering quiet travelers.

He took a bite of the cheese on the plate in front of him, letting the pungent taste fill his mouth and sinuses before swallowing and washing it down with a sip of ale. The air was full of easy conversation, not too raucous, but lively enough, and in the far corner a ragged looking man strummed at a lute. It was a comfortable atmosphere, and a welcome break from the road, though not one he’d be able to indulge in for long. The paper containing his orders, tucked inside his breastplate, close to the skin, was a constant reminder of that.

“I haven’t seen you here before, have I?” The innkeeper asked, pausing near him as she filled a tankard from the cask across from where Steve sat. “You’ve got a familiar look about you.”

Steve almost replied yes, that he’d been through Lothering many times, but then caught himself and gave an apologetic shake of his head. “I haven’t been here for a very long time,” he truthfully replied.

“Hmm. How long? I’ve been working at this here inn since I was a slip of a girl. Nigh on thirty years,” she pressed, handing the full tankard to a man sitting a few stools down from Steve.

It felt like only a couple of years to him. But for all the streaks of iron gray in her brown hair, the innkeep probably hadn’t even been born the last time Steve had bought a drink in Lothering. Still, he didn't feel like explaining himself if he answered _oh, about seventy-five years_ , so he simply smiled and shrugged. “Long.” The whole layout of the inn had been different. Half the town had changed, for that matter, buildings he didn’t recognize springing up, and nature overtaking the ruins of abandoned farms he’d remembered from before. The Chantry was more or less untouched, though the paint had faded over time.

Time. Which had flowed on, changing everything, while Steve Rogers had stayed still for seventy years.

It was funny what things didn’t change, though. For a while, walking down the Imperial Highway from the shores of Lake Calenhad down through the Bannorn, he’d almost been able to forget. The dust clinging to his boots was the same, and the ancient arches of the Imperial Highway, worn and weathered as they were, had endured for centuries before Steve had gone into the ice, and would endure for many more before succumbing to the elements. The timelessness of it gave him comfort, at least until he came in view of another village or township he could barely recognize.

And the last time he’d come this way on the Imperial Highway, it hadn’t been alone.

He pushed the thought down, biting off a chunk of bread from his supper and focusing all his attentions on chewing. There were some things best not dwelled upon.

“You got friends or family you’ll be staying with tonight, then?”

“Hmm?” Steve looked up. “Oh. No.” He suppressed a wince. “I was planning on bedding down in the Chantry for the night.”

The Innkeeper clucked her tongue at him. “On a cold and drafty floor? No ‘fense to the revered mother and sisters, mind you, but I’ve got an empty room up top what’s warm and has a bed. Give you a more than fair price for it too.”

He bordered on declining the offer, but paused. Lothering was one of the last villages before he entered the Southron Hills, and then the Wilds beyond. It might be his last chance to sleep in a bed for quite some time. And as many nights as he’d spent sleeping on a Chantry floor in his lifetime so far --

Noting his hesitation, she grinned. “I’m sure them folks at the Chantry won’t be too heartbroken by your absence. Here, I’ll go get you the key...”

And somehow, Steve found himself being ushered that night into a small but clean room with a bed stuffed with fresh straw, his belly full, and still a few coins left to clink in his pocket. Stripping away the rest of his armor, shucking it piece by piece and stretching once he was free of the weight of it, he let himself fall on to the bed with a luxurious sigh.

It was pleasant.

It was... nice.

It was boding far better for this entire journey than he’d dared hope for when he’d set out a week ago. _Maybe this will be one of the easy ones._

Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out the crumpled letter he’d memorized nights ago, but continued reading each night like a ritual. His orders from Knight-Commander Phillips -- No, that wasn’t right. Knight-Commander Ross, he reminded himself, grimacing at the lapse in memory. Phillips was long dead of old age. Like so many others.

They were simple enough orders. He was to venture into the Korcari Wilds on a mission of reconnaissance, to search for signs of an apostate rumored to have fled there from the Brecelian Forest, and to see if he could find any sign of the last Templar deployed to the Wilds, who had yet to return. He was not to engage or to apprehend on his own. He was to return once he had something to report, or once he’d recovered his colleague.

As an initiate, long ago, he’d have thought the assignment the pinnacle of excitement -- venturing into the savage wilderness on a solo mission of great import. Now, though... Now Steve knew well enough that he’d been sent to go wander around in the middle of nowhere for a bit and to stay out of trouble. The last two years since the dwarves had dug him out of the ice in the mountains, more dead than alive, had been trying times. Before the ice, he’d been exemplary in his duties, a perfect soldier and an accomplished mage hunter, as his dusty but still-preserved records had shown.

Which made him something of a disappointment now, as it turned out. Because the man dug out of the ice didn’t appear to be any of those things, and he couldn’t bring himself to try to explain just how so much had changed when to all appearances, he hadn’t aged a day. They’d given him time to adjust. And more time.

Time seemed to be more of the problem than the solution, really.

Before he’d been a captain. A leader. He’d had a good report with the men, with his superiors, and with the mages in the tower. Now, he felt himself surrounded by strangers and tied up in a legacy blown out of proportion by time. And when it came to leading, well.

There was a reason Steve was on a solo mission.

Still, even if time didn’t do much, maybe a little distance would be good. Out in the wilds, he’d be less exposed to jarring differences; there would be less to remind him of all he’d lost, all he’d missed out on. And weren’t there tales in the Chant of Light of pious men and women venturing out into the far reaches of the world to seek out signs of the Maker? He tried to steer his thoughts in this direction of optimism. If nothing else, a successful mission might help restore some sense of purpose in him. Let him feel like Captain Rogers of the Templar Order, and not just “The Ice Templar” as they’d apparently started calling him in hushed voices.

Out in the wilds, Steve thought, as he tucked the letter away and blew out the candle, things might feel more normal. He might get back to himself. Maybe he’d find in accomplishing something, he’d feel more like the man he was supposed to be.

And really, he reflected, sinking into the comfort of the bed, pulling a wool blanket up to his chin -- what could go wrong?

 

-o-

 

Steve found himself regretting his optimism when he woke in the pre-dawn hours and heard the patter of the rain outside.

Lying in bed for an hour or so, he contemplated simply not donning his armor, since it would be less inclined to rust stowed safely in his pack. But talk of bandits on the highway when he’d finally gone down for breakfast suggested he’d be better off with it, and the added space in his pack would allow for him to stock up on more supplies. In the end he’d eaten a hearty bowl of hot porridge and then strapped all his plate on, grimacing with the knowledge he’d be cleaning rust off those buckles in a few days’ time.

Between the innkeep and a few local merchants, he was able to further lighten his purse and load his pack with victuals for his expedition. As much as the savory meats and freshly picked fruits on display made his mouth water, he did his best to focus on foods that wouldn’t spoil right off, and which would fill his belly for as long as possible (though he did indulge in a meat-pie and a few fresh peaches, since they’d be out of season soon).

His final stop was the Chantry, where he checked in with the local Templars to exchange news (Steve carried word of recent events at Kinloch Hold, Ser Bryant in turn told him of local rumors), and offered a small tithe in exchange for the Revered Mother’s blessing for his journey.

“Maker watch over you, Captain Rogers,” she murmured, smiling gently as he bowed in gratitude.

And then all too soon he was on the road, pack and shield both strapped to his back, heading south through the hills and hinterlands until Lothering vanished long behind him. Parts of the road had turned to slick and sticky mud which clung to his boots and greaves, the rainwater trickling down the back of his armor in rivulets.

He’d walked many miles of the Imperial Highway, all across Ferelden and even venturing into Orlais. Often, he’d had Bucky at his side, telling animated stories, or Dugan singing some off-color drinking song while Jones worked to translate some dirty joke Dernier had just told from Orlesian, all to pass the time and make the treks feel shorter. Now, without their company, all he could think about was the rain and the wet and the cold. And the fact that he damn well _missed_ them so much it--

_Stop it._ He stopped dead in the road, squeezing his eyes shut and drawing a breath, banishing those thoughts. They didn’t do him any good, and they did even less good to the dead. He wasn’t going to think about it.

He wasn’t.

So he counted his paces and mentally calculated the miles and watched for any markers carved into the ancient arches of the Tevinter roadways, where they hadn’t eroded away yet. And by midday the rain had turned to a fine mist, and he had a still fresh, if cold and slightly smushed meat-pie in his pack for his lunch.

 

-o-

 

He made camp that night in a copse of trees near the top of a hillock where the ground wasn’t too soggy. With the autumn chill just beginning to set in with summer’s end, he considered building a fire, but decided against it when all the wood he found was too damp to kindle. Before the sun had gone down, he’d been able to make out the spires of the ancient Tevinter fortress of Ostagar, long gone to ruin.

He slept fitfully, only for a few hours, then broke camp and followed the road in the dark, letting the moon light his path.

He reached the edge of the wilds the following afternoon.

Not that such things were marked. The Bannorn faded gradually into the Hinterlands with no marked border between demesnes, and the Hinterlands and Southron Hills in turn gave way to the Korcari Wilds without any line drawn in the sand to indicate where the transition occurred.

But nonetheless, as he broke away from the road, heading southeast and away from the shadow of Ostagar, it became clear that the land here was more... well, _wild_. No more was there a chance of finding some scattered farmhouse or cabin. There were no roads or highways here, save for the tracks worn in the earth by the Chasind folk and packs of beasts. The plants grew thicker and wilder here, with a greater prevalence of evergreens, and the ground itself more craggy and more treacherous, stony outcroppings giving way to miring swampland within a matter of a dozen paces.

Steve found himself having to watch his step, focusing more on his surroundings than on his own memories in a rather welcome change of pace. After all, if he fell and broke a leg out here, it wasn’t like there was anyone around to hear him shouting for help.

At least, not anyone he felt particularly inclined to meet.

He’d never met any of the Chasind, though he heard talk of some occasionally venturing north to trade with the Hill folk. It was more than possible that the tales he’d heard as a boy of the barbarians of the southern wildernesses were conflated rumors and fantastic distortions. It was also possible that they were anchored in fact, and that his tresspasses would not be appreciated. And that wasn’t even approaching the topic of the alleged Witches of the Wilds...

Which wasn’t to say there wasn’t a terrible beauty to the landscape. Moss grew heavy and spongy on the ground in vivid emerald shades, a bright contrast against pale outcroppings of stone, shot through with veins of glossy quartz. The trees to the north were all still green, but here the slender swamp maples that grew out of the brackish water had already begun to turn with flashes of orange and crimson.

It was against one of those moss-covered outcroppings, sheltered by boulders which had likely split apart from even larger boulders left here eons ago, that Steve made camp that second night. The sky had cleared and the earth dried enough that he was able to find some dry tinder with which to make a small fire -- enough to heat up a warm supper from the victuals in his pack.

It was beautiful out here. Beautiful and wild, and dangerous, certainly, but there was also a kind of peace to it. If only because it offered him peace of mind. Steve scoured his armor, working away the beginnings of rust with a handful of clean sand, and reorganized his pack before finally bedding down with his cloak for a blanket and his arm for a pillow in an attempt to rest, if only for a little while.

In the distance, the mournful howling of wolves lulled him to sleep.

 

-o-

 

If Steve had been expecting to stumble across any sign of the apostate he’d been sent to investigate, or the preceding Templar he was supposed to recover, he found himself sorely disappointed on both fronts.

On the one hand, the desolate lack of habitation was somewhat reassuring, as there was no one to try to kill him or otherwise take offense at his presence. On the other hand, it didn’t exactly make his job easy. There was little in this wilderness to indicate the presence of apostate nor templar, or anything other than wild beasts.

He’d heard the howling of those well enough the night before.

Biting into the last ripe peach from Lothering, savoring the explosion of lush flavor even as the juice dribbled down his chin, Steve leaned heavily against a tall pine. He’d been trekking through the wilds, keeping an eye out for any signs of sentient life since before dawn, and his stomach had begun to complain heartily as the sun climbed in the sky. Sucking the last of the juicy flesh from the pit, he leaned his head back against the rough bark and looked up at the sky with a sigh.

Soon enough, however, he was back to looking at the ground, watching his step and narrowly avoiding a sinkhole that he nearly slid into when his foot caught a particularly slippery patch of moss. Birds twittered in the trees, just out of sight, and while he recognized some of the calls, others were oddly alien. A few times he heard something rustle in the brush and froze, only to catch a glimpse of a squirrel or other small and furry creature as it fled from view.

Rather than dwelling overly on what he _didn’t_ find, he tried to make use of what he did. Thick vines hanging low from dead branches were easily braided into rope; something he could use to make a snare and lay traps if he should have to supplement his supplies. He came across several shrubs he was fairly certain he recognized from the herbalism lessons one of the sisters at the Chantry where he was raised had tried to teach him. Elfroot? (Or was that Deathroot? He doubted he wanted to mix them up). Unsure, he found himself carefully plucking the leaves nonetheless, wrapping them in a small parcel in his pack, laying them flat against the bottom.

The sky was growing dark, the golden twilight clinging to the canopy of the trees as the sunk sank when he finally found fresh tracks. They were in the shape of booted feet and not hooves nor paws for once, in a patch of bare soil. Steve’s heart skipped. The ground had dried and hardened in the last few days, so the depth of the tracks suggested they’d been laid when the soil was wetter and softer; immediately after the rain then, which meant they couldn’t be more than two days old. _Someone_ had been here.

He followed the prints -- narrow, long, not too deep, most likely a man’s foot, though a Templar in full armor would surely have left deeper tracks -- until the trail vanished into the moss.

Steve muttered a rare curse beneath his breath. The moss might have retained the tracks for a few hours, perhaps even a day, but by now the lush and spongy growth had bounced back and obliterated any sign of where the tracks had been. He was close, but not close enough, and with darkness rapidly encroaching, soon he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

Finding a lee between a boulder and a massive rotting log, Steve set up camp, staring into the flames of his cooking fire until he began to feel drowsy.

The howling of the wolves echoed through the wilds, and he shivered in spite of the fire’s warmth.

 

-o-

 

The third day, Steve searched. He found the tracks again, and tried to follow them again in the daylight. When he lost the trail, he circled outward in a search grid, meticulously going over the ground in hopes that he might recover the prints once more. Whoever had trod through here before him had been light-footed and left little sign.

An armored Templar, more accustomed to battlements and dusty roads than overgrown wilderness, would leave a lot more broken flora and upturned soil in his wake. Steve’s own prints were proof of this. And the thought made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

As the day wore on, however, apprehension had turned to pure frustration. The task he’d been assigned was much like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Except one needle was an apostate, and the haystack was full of muck and mire and wolves and, as Steve discovered with a yelp and a lot of ensuing splashing, quicksand. Lying on a bank, recovering his breath after pulling himself free, he felt a pang of regret at so quickly accepting this assignment.

It wasn’t that Steve wasn’t an adept mage hunter. Quite the contrary. He’d recovered (he preferred “recovered” to “apprehended” when describing what he did) well over a score of apostates, some of them very dangerous, and he’d even rooted out a handful of abominations. Most of the time it was a matter of finding and talking to people, and asking the right questions. Steve had the sort of face people trusted, a method of explaining himself that alternately garnered sympathy and brooked no argument. He’d been adept at knocking on the right doors, visiting the right pubs, and asking the right questions. Learning who may have heard or seen something, and where certain persons had last been spotted. It was never long before he had a trail to follow.

But there were no doors to knock on here. No pubs. No one to ask anything. All he had were a few isolated footprints and a whole lot of wilderness.

Eying the innocuous patch of quicksand, he was beginning to wonder about the preceding templar’s fate. It might be he was only looking for one needle in this haystack after all. If even that. He was starting to wonder if Knight-Commander Ross had sent him on this mission to get him out of the way temporarily, or perhaps a bit more permanently.

Stop it, he chided himself. Hadn’t he been considering, just a few short days ago, how good an opportunity this quest would be? He tried to muster up some of the optimism he’d had in Lothering. There was quiet, there was peace, he certainly wasn’t thinking of... things he didn’t want to think of, and the landscape was beautiful (when it wasn’t trying to kill him).  And if his efforts at his search proved fruitless, well... perhaps that was the Maker testing him.

He continued his search pattern throughout the day, recovering a few more herbs as he went and gathering blackberries in a handkerchief from a shrub he discovered. They were juicy and tart and stained his fingers purple, and went a long way toward improving his mood once the sun began to set. This was the Maker’s will, after all, that he be here. He hadn’t questioned the orders when he’d been given them, and he wasn’t going to question fate now.

He struggled to find a good spot to camp, and the light was blue and dwindling when he finally found a hollow where a large tree had come uprooted from the side of a hill. He struck up a fire fairly quickly, having gathered an armload of wood as he’d searched, and it wasn’t long before he had a few strips of dried meat and a chopped potato stewing in a little tin over the flames.

The howling of the wolves was even louder tonight, melancholy and dissonant.

Steve ate his supper and curled up on his side next to his fire, letting the heat of the flames curl his lashes and dry his skin. The days were pleasant, but the nights here felt almost unseasonably cool -- though he supposed that was an indicator of how much further south he’d come than he was used to. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, and gazed at the shimmering coals through half-lidded eyes until he felt himself drifting...

He didn’t recall falling asleep. But abruptly, the fire was much lower, reduced to a crimson glow.

Steve heard something rustle. _Close_.

His breath caught in his chest. He blinked, then slowly reached toward his sword, trying to recall where he’d positioned his shield. It had to be nearby, didn’t it?

A snarl cut through his consciousness, sending his heart leaping into his throat. It was followed by a low growl, and in the dim red light of the fire, Steve could make out hulking shapes approaching him like demons from the pits of the Black City.

The wolves had been so much louder that night, he realized dimly, his stomach sinking.

One of the creatures growled even deeper, taking half a pace forward. Steve sought to count the shapes in the darkness -- at least four, possibly more. He slowly, very slowly, drew his sword from its scabbard, wincing at the whisper of metal against leather. With the naked steel gleaming in his hand, he reached behind him for his shield. Perhaps, standing and armed, he might have a chance to scare--

Before he could finish the thought, the lead wolf struck. With a snarl, taut muscles coiled and the beast leapt at him, teeth bared and shining even brighter than Steve’s sword. His hand closed on the edge of his templar’s shield, and he only just barely managed to get it up off the ground in time to swing it at the wolf, catching it in the air and sending it flying to one side.

At which point the rest attacked all at once.

Steve slashed at the one to his right while he bashed another to the left with his shield. There was a loud yelp and Steve felt a pang of guilt in spite of himself, though it didn’t slow him down as he jabbed forward with the blade at another one of the beasts, which darted back with bared fangs, just barely dodging the blow.

Then, fire was coursing through Steve’s leg. He let out a cry of pain, falling to his knee and twisting against the pain in his calf as he reached around to stab at the wolf whose teeth were buried in the flesh above his boot. The sword sunk deep and the jaws slackened as the animal snarled and yipped in pain. Steve managed to pull away, but then another set of jaws were closing on his arm, digging in. He cursed himself for taking off his bracers as he felt blood course down to his elbow, staining his sleeve before he could get his shield up and strike the wolf with the edge of it.

Steve breathed heavily, head grown light with adrenaline. He needed to stand. Needed to get up, needed to get his back to a tree or something so they couldn’t surround him. He needed to --

A heavy weight landed on his back, driving him down as hot and fetid breath blew over the back of his neck, a growl so low he could feel it in his bones emanating inches from his ear. Cursing, he tried to roll over as claws caught and raked against his gambeson (that, at least, he’d kept on, if not his plate), attempting to get his shield out from under him. Teeth like knives dug into his shoulder, puncturing the leather like paper. Steve gasped, eyes watering, then slammed his elbow up and back into something soft. He rolled on to his side, bringing his shield up over him, and groped for his sword, bringing it up just as the beast lunged for his throat.

Hot blood spattered him. The wolf whimpered then fell to the ground, and Steve might have felt a brief flash of victory if another member of the pack hadn’t taken its place. There were too many of them.

There were too many of them and Steve was on the ground on his back, about to die alone in the wilds. Seventy years he’d somehow survived in the damn ice, and now he was going to be eaten by wolves. How embarrassing. Frantically, he wondered if Ross would send some other poor bastard to find any sign of him when he didn’t return, an endless stream of doomed templars wandering off to be eaten ali--

Pain. Pain exploded as teeth sunk into his clavicle, tearing through the soft flesh beside his throat. He screamed in pain, flailing, trying to fight the damned thing off, but they were pinning him down, all claws and teeth and fur and blood, everything crimson and black in the dimming light.

This was it, Steve realized through the agony. This was how it ended. His struggles weakened as fangs rended his flesh, his blood spilling out on to the soil. His legs already felt weighted and numb, and his vision blurred. He hoped the Maker wasn’t too disappointed in him.

Amid the red and black, there was a brief flash of green.

Then nothing but darkness.

 

-o-o-o- 


	3. To the Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes up in the company of a mysterious rescuer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all you lovely readers who have commented and left kudos! And thanks to [Lise](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise) for being a wonderful beta. F
> 
> or those of you delightful folks who are MCU fans without an intimate knowledge of Dragon Age, I highly recommend checking out the [Dragon Age Wiki](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki) for background on any terms you might be unfamiliar with. There is also [this map of Ferelden](http://edsdragonage.wdfiles.com/local--files/play-aids/Ferelden-map.jpg) to help you get your bearings. I've also added [a post to my tumblr](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com/post/76179172885/with-hearts-more-proof-than-shields-chapter-two-to) with a few key terms and background info for this chapter.

The first thing Steve was aware of was the smell of something burning.

No, not _burning_ , he noted, slowly opening his eyes just enough for light to filter in through his lashes -- which was odd in and of itself, since Steve always rose before the dawn. Not burning, or at least, not just burning. He breathed in the acrid and familiar odor of wood smoke, but layered over it was something far more aromatic. _Cooking_.

His stomach twisted in a pang of hunger. Slowly, blinking away the crust on his eyelids, Steve managed to open his eyes. He could hear muted birdsong and the soft crackling of a nearby fire, and when he turned his head to the right--

When he turned his head to the right, he was met with shooting pain, dull and throbbing all the way down his neck and shoulder. He gasped softly and tensed up against it, squeezing his eyes shut. Pain. Why was he in pain? Steve’s mind reeled. And then remembered.

The wolves. The wilds.

Steve’s eyes snapped open. He’d been dying, being torn apart. But he was fairly certain his shoulder wouldn’t ache so much if he were at the Maker’s side. Which meant...

For the first time since he woke, Steve gave his surroundings an attentive look, moving his head slowly so as not to jar his injured shoulder. He was inside a-- hut? no, a ruin, probably one of the old Tevinter structures long left to fall apart to rubble, Part of the ceiling was open to the sky, allowing dappled sunlight in, and most of the debris had been cleared away from a small, central area. A fire crackled in a small fire pit over to his right, a pot hanging over it, full of something simmering.

Steve himself was lying on something relatively soft, which on further inspection proved to be some kind of musky animal pelt thrown over a bed of pine needles, his own cloak draped over him like a blanket. Gingerly, he pulled it back, looking down at himself. He’d been stripped down to his breeches, and pungent bandages wrapped his wounds.

Someone had rescued him from the wolves; someone with a campsite in the Tevinter ruins. Someone who had bound his wounds and saved his life, and who could, from the smell of it, cook. Steve’s mind felt frustratingly sluggish as he attempted to process this. He lifted a hand to rub at his eyes with a groan, wincing at the twinge in his arm where sharp teeth had punctured the skin.

“The soup is almost ready.”

Steve started, drawing his hand from his face too quickly and pulling his shoulder with a sharp intake of breath. A figure stood in the doorway (or at least, the collapsed section of wall partly covered in scraps of animal hide, opening out into the forest) with features obscured by shadow as the light behind him cast him in silhouette. The man -- and the voice that spoke had been male, Steve recognized -- moved across the small ruin to the fire, pulling off his green cloak and settling on his haunches with his back to Steve as he gave the contents of the pot a stir.

Steve swallowed. “Where--” His voice proved raspy when he tried to speak. He coughed, wincing in pain, and tried again. “Where am I?”

“The Korcari Wilds. Though if you want more geographic specifics, you’re not far from your previous campsite,” the stranger replied. Something about the voice was oddly dissonant in Steve’s mind; the slender stranger was dressed in worn and battered leather, a long sleeveless tunic of interwoven leather strapping, decorated with scraps of hide and feathers like a Chasind wildling. But when he spoke, it was with the clear enunciation of the nobles of Denerim (albeit with something of an accent, though Steve couldn’t quite pinpoint from where.) The discrepancy was, well, peculiar.

“Thank you,” Steve said after a moment’s hesitation.

The man -- his rescuer, he presumed -- stiffened but did not turn. “The wolves of the wilds are clever,” he finally remarked. It was difficult to tell without seeing his face, but his voice almost sounded... amused? “They know that campfires signal the presence of fresh meat.”

"And _your_ fire?" Steve asked, managing to prop himself up on his elbow with a wince. If the simple glow of his campfire had drawn the wolves, he had to wonder about the smell of cooking meat.

The stranger finally turned around, giving Steve a view of his savior. His hair, long, black and slightly wavy, framed a narrow, strikingly pale face, adorned with thin blue lines not unlike the tattoos Steve had seen on Dalish elves, or men of Rivain. His eyes were blue -- or perhaps green, Steve wasn’t near enough to tell -- and glittered with the light of the flickering campfire as they looked Steve over. His thin slash of a mouth tugged up at the corners in a wry smirk. “Oh, they know better than to prey on _my_ hearth.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at this claim. “And why’s that?” he asked, wondering now where his gear had gotten to. Were his sword and shield still out in the wilderness somewhere? If the man was wrong and the wolves returned -- Steve’s throat tightened at the thought -- he’d be defenseless.

The stranger gave a low chuckle. The wry smile suddenly adopted a predatory glint, and Steve found himself thinking of the bared fangs of the wolves with a hint of unease. But all he got by way of an answer was a proffered wooden bowl full of stew. “Soup’s on, Templar.”

Steve hesitated, sitting up a little further and holding the warm bowl between his hands. “How did you know I’m a Templar?”

The stranger snorted indelicately. “The Templar’s seal emblazoned all over your shield and armor served as an indicator.”

“Oh, right.” Steve blushed slightly. He hadn’t been given a spoon, so he lifted the bowl to his mouth and sipped at the flavorful broth, doing his best not to slurp. “Er, speaking of my armor--”

A dismissive hand wave. “Outside.” The stranger began to ladle up a second hand-carved bowl.

Steve sagged a little in relief. “Ah. Thank you.” Not having to traipse through the wilds half-naked was good. As, he realized, was the stew. He had to eat the chunks with his fingers, and while the meat was a tad stringy, it had been stewed to tenderness and had an pleasing if unfamiliar flavor. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the meat in this?” he asked.

He’d earned himself another dark smirk. “There was a fair bit of fresh meat lying around when I found you. Seemed a pity to waste it.”

Steve paused, bowl halfway to his lips, as that sunk in. “I’m eating wolf?”

“He tried to eat you,” the stranger pointed out, sipping the stew from his own bowl. “I’d say turnabout’s fair play.”

Unsure of how to reply, Steve elected to say nothing and instead returned to eating his (wolf) stew, without thinking too hard about it. He was hungry and the food was quite tasty, and that was all that ought to matter. He found himself gazing out the door at the patterns of dappled sunlight that changed with a breeze, and wondering if it was morning or afternoon light. Without any knowledge of his position, he couldn’t tell if the sun was in the west or east, or to what degree he’d overslept. “How long have I been out?” he finally ventured, when his bowl was mostly empty.

His host didn’t look up from his own bowl. “Two and a half days.”

“Two and-- What?” Steve squawked, a jolt of terror running down his spine. The thought of losing that much time, losing any time -- _falling asleep and waking up too late, far too late, all that time gone forever --_

“You needed the rest,” the stranger chided, looking vaguely peeved. “You were badly injured.”

Steve tried to calm his breathing. Two and a half days was a far cry from seventy years. The world hadn’t moved on without him in the course of two days. Just because he’d overslept didn’t mean he’d _overslept_. Everything was fine.

Everything was fine.

The stranger regarded him oddly.

“Sorry,” Steve finally said, exhaling. “I just... I didn’t think it was that long. Thank you,” he quickly added, “for your hospitality.” Looking around, there didn’t seem to be much in the way of furniture in the little camp in the ruin, and Steve had a sneaking suspicion that the pile of furs he currently occupied was the other man’s bed. That he’d been deprived of for three days. Damn.

The critical, questioning look gave way to something that might have been amusement. “Think nothing of it,” the stranger said idly, taking the empty bowl from Steve’s hands. “You should probably get some more rest. No sense in tiring yourself out.”

Steve tried to retort that he’d just rested for two and a half days, he didn’t need any more, but the simple conversation had left him oddly weary, and his full belly inclined him to sleepiness. He sank back on to the furs, then frowned as the stranger headed for the doorway. “Wait!” he called. “I don’t even know your--”

The man disappeared from view.

“--Name,” Steve finished lamely, before sighing and letting his eyes drift back closed.

 

-o-

 

Steve slept for most of the rest of the day. He woke a few times, abruptly and with his heart pounding, examining his surroundings and taking stock of the still-smoking coals in the hearth to reassure himself that too much time hadn’t passed before lapsing back into sleep. When he woke in the middle of the night, the darkness disoriented him for a few horrible seconds before he made out the sound of slow and measured breathing somewhere nearby. His mysterious rescuer was just a black shape on the ground in the dark, but his silent presence was an anchor, confirming that Steve hadn’t come unmoored in time once more.

When he finally awoke for good, he was groggy and sore and hungry again. His host reheated the remaining stew for them both, gave Steve a bitter tasting tea that did wonders to soothe the ache in his muscles, then set to inspecting Steve’s bandages.

“I, uh, I noticed they smell a bit... odd,” Steve ventured. “Is that something to be worried about?”

His host snorted. “No.”

Steve waited for clarification, but none appeared to be forthcoming. “Okay, I just thought--”

“The odor is not from your wounds, Templar, but rather from the herbal tincture the bandages were soaked in,” he relented with a sigh. “And it appears to be doing its job nicely.”

True enough, with the bandages pulled back Steve was surprised by how well the flesh had knit back together, with no sign of inflammation. The wounds on his arm and calf were barely more than angry scabs now, and the deep bite on his collarbone was healing far faster than he’d have thought possible. “Wow. You’re an herbalist?” he asked, watching as the other man produced a small mortar and pestle, seemingly out of nowhere, and began smearing a rather pungent olive-colored paste from the mortar on to the bite.

He was not dignified with a response beyond a withering look. Steve smiled sheepishly. “Right. Stupid question.”

It turned out that he asked a lot of stupid questions, judging by the monosyllabic responses and arch looks his host tended to give him. Sometimes he answered Steve with a smirk and a non-sequitur, and sometimes he pretended not to have heard him at all. Though given he’d saved Steve’s life and had spent the last few days nursing him back to health, he could hardly resent him for it. After all, anyone who chose to live as a hermit in the wilds at the southern edges of civilization probably didn’t do so because they enjoyed an abundance of conversation.

Near noon, Steve ventured to stand up, guiding himself to his feet using the wall and gingerly putting his weight on his injured leg, only to find it supported him quite well. While his host occupied himself peeling some sort of tuber, Steve limped over to where his pack and armor sat in a heap by the door and began rifling through his supplies. Thankful he’d brought his second shirt with him (the first one was gone, any salvageable fabric used for his bandages), he pulled it on and felt slightly less of an invalid now that he was properly clothed. He then reached down to the very bottom of his pack, finding the carefully wrapped parcel there and withdrawing it with a smile.

A moment later, his host glanced up at him questioningly as Steve moved to stand over him.

“I know it’s not much in way of recompense, considering all of, well, this,” he babbled, gesturing vaguely, “but I imagine you could probably do a lot more with them than me. What with being an Herbalist. I mean, if you’d like.” He held out the packet of herbs he’d gathered, slightly dry and wilted, but otherwise preserved, and felt like an utter idiot.

He received a look that began as skeptical confusion, but gave way to something akin to amusement. His host reached out to graciously accept the herbs, mouth twitching in a smile.  “Such manners from a Templar,” he mused, plucking through the plants with nimble fingers.

Steve sat back down, brow furrowing faintly. “You’ve met other Templars?”

He shrugged. “A handful have passed through. I don’t pay them much heed,” he replied idly, and Steve wondered if he imagined that for the barest of moments, his host appeared to stiffen.

“Steven.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Steven. Or Steve. Not Templar. My name, I mean,” he offered, feeling somewhat sheepish. For all he’d been wondering about the other man’s name, he’d only just realized he’d never given his own.

His rescuer looked at him for a few seconds as if he’d sprouted a second head, before smiling faintly. “Steven The Unusually Polite Templar it is, then.”

“What should I call you?”

For a moment, he didn’t think he’d receive an answer. Just another one of those long and inscrutable looks. But then:

“Loki. If you must.”

“You’re not Chasind, are you?” Steve asked, taking advantage of this window of good humor in hopes of an answer.

“Have you met many Chasind?” Loki queried, raising an eyebrow.

Steve recognized the deflection and shrugged. “No. Just heard stories.”

Loki snorted. “Well, you’re hardly in a position to know whether or not I am Chasind, are you?”

It was true enough, and Steve shrugged and fell silent.

For a few minutes anyway. Because if Loki had seen Templars come through here before, that meant he took note of strangers in the wilds. And if Loki lived here, there was a chance that he’d know if a mage had taken refuge. Steve licked his lips. “You haven’t... I mean, you haven’t by chance heard of anyone around these parts who--”

“If you’re asking me about some rogue mage, don’t bother. I keep to myself,” Loki said, withdrawing and returning his attention to the herbs.

“Except for when you’re rescuing unusually polite Templars?”

A snort. “Not something I make a habit of, believe me.”

Steve didn’t press further, though his thoughts drifted once more to the missing Templars that had come before him. He wondered how _impolite_ they may have been.

“You may try further to the East.” Loki offered without looking at him, interrupting his thoughts.

Steve nodded gratefully, though Loki still wasn’t looking his way. “Thank you,” he said, rubbing at his shoulder.. “For everything.”

Loki glanced over at him, his expression unreadable. “Do try to avoid the wolves when you go out this time.”

“I’ll try.”

“They’re noble creatures and I daresay they might chip a tooth on your armor.”

Steve stared for a moment, then laughed.

Loki hesitated, then smirked back at him.

 

-o-

 

The next day, Steve woke in the early dawn, feeling well enough to travel.

It didn’t take too long for him to prepare. He spent half an hour scouring dried blood from his things in a stream at the bottom of the hill. He hadn’t been wearing most of his armor, so it had suffered much beyond scattered blood drops, though his sword and shield were both crusted with it. His leather gambeson was a mess, he noted with a wince, fingering the tears, but he could hardly wear his plate over nothing but a plain shirt, so he washed off all the blood he could and pulled the still-damp leather garment on over his head.

He buckled on all his gear, grimacing when the straps rubbed again still-tender flesh, and made his way back up the hill.

“Thank you again,” he said, standing in the doorway.

Loki gave a small grunt of acknowledgement as he busied himself with kindling the fire back to life, crouching over the wood and paying him little mind.

It wasn’t much of a goodbye. Steve shrugged and turned to go, shouldering his pack.

“Luck,” Loki muttered, not looking up.

Steve smiled. “Maker watch over you.”

Setting out into the wilds, he oriented himself by the sun and headed east.

 

-o-

 

Orienting himself by the sun only worked so long as the sun was shining. But when heavy cloud cover rolled in, the task grew difficult. On the Imperial Highway, all Steve had needed to do to keep his bearings in the rain was follow the road, but when the first few drops of rain began to patter through the leaves with no sun and no road to mark east from any other cardinal direction, he found himself disoriented. He tried to follow an old trick Dugan had taught him for going in a straight line in the forest, of picking a tree directly in front of him, and keeping on a direct bearing until he reached that tree, then picking another on a straight line in the direction he wanted to go in.

Which would have probably worked better if all the trees didn’t look the same to him.

Soon Steve was damp, sore, and quite possibly a little lost, stumbling in what he hoped very much was east and thinking fondly of Loki’s campfire.

His lone consolation was that when he slept beneath the low branches of a towering fir tree that night, he heard nothing of wolves.

 

-o-

 

The rain let up, but two days later the sky remained overcast and grim. Steve regretted the haste with which he’d left Loki’s camp. Of course, he would have likely overstayed his welcome, such as it was, but the bite in his shoulder still twinged without the herbal concoctions Loki had dressed it with, and he would have given his left foot for some more of that bitter tea to banish his aches. Or some of that wolf stew, for that matter.

The first rainy day, he’d crafted a snare from the vines he’d woven together and managed to trap himself a ground squirrel the following morning, which he’d quickly skinned and gutted, making for a hot meal. He hadn’t caught anything else, though. Or seen anything else, for that matter. Which was a relief in the case of wolves, but a little disconcerting in other aspects. He didn’t even hear birdsong here, or the whine of insects that ought to have filled the swamps.

This part of the wilds was eerily still. The silence began to wear on his nerves.

It was well into the afternoon when he finally heard a welcome sound in the lifeless stillness; the babbling of a brook. Following the noise, he found a thin stream of clear fresh water, crystal and cold amid the brackish pools of swamp water. A smile spread across his face; he still had water in the flagon in his pack, but it had developed a stale flavor. He quickly made his way down the embankment, slipping a little on the mud, but catching himself before he lost his balance, then crouched down amid the stones on the bank and cupped his hands in the water.

Then the wind shifted, and with it brought the smell of death.

Steve froze, the water seeping out from between his fingers, his thirst abruptly gone. Somewhere nearby, something was rotting. The water, so clear and innocuous, could well be fouled. Shaking droplets from his hands, he stood and looked around, taking a few steps upstream toward where the stream took a sharp turn.

It didn’t take long to find the carcass. The lack of droning insects in this part of the wilds apparently did not extend to flies, which buzzed ominously around the carrion. Whatever it was had been dead a while -- part was submerged in the water, bloated and splitting, and the exposed ribs had been picked nearly clean by scavengers. The stench of decay hung heavily on the air, turning Steve’s stomach. He covered his mouth with his hand and made to climb back up the embankment, when he caught sight of a skull and felt a chill run down from the top of his head to the base of his spine.

The corpse was human. And while it had clearly been dead for some time, the presence of flesh, however putrefied, still clinging to the bones meant it hadn’t been dead for _that_ long. Steve closed his eyes for a second, then, doing his best not to breathe through his nose, took a few steps closer to the body. Scavengers had definitely been at it (which meant the forest had become unoccupied rather recently), and there was little left by which to identify the poor soul. Clothes and armor were torn and scattered, and many possessions had probably washed downstream. But then something glinted beneath the surface of the water. Steve steeled himself, reaching beneath the bloated, putrid legs, and gripped the edge of something hard and metallic. It took a few hard yanks that nearly dislodged the corpse’s entire foot before he managed to pull it free and up out of the water. When it did, his stomach flipped and sank at the familiar sight of a Templar’s shield.

It appeared that Steve had succeeded in part of his mission, at least: he’d found Ross’ missing Templar.

The man’s possessions were either covered in rot, scattered, or missing, but Steve managed to find a hand (a fair distance from the body) with a signet ring still attached to the dessicated finger. He managed to pull it free (trying not to look at some of the finger that came free too), washing it off in the water and then pocketing it. It would have to serve as evidence enough of the man’s demise, and could hopefully be returned to his family if he had one. With that done, Steve began to collect smooth and rounded rocks from the riverbed and set to work stacking them over the body. He had no shovel to dig a grave, or proper kindling and fire for a pyre, but he could build a cairn to protect what was left of the remains.

He was sweating and aching, armor discarded on the hillside and stripped down to shirt, when he finished. It wasn’t an impressive marker, by any means, but he felt some semblance of solace for having made it. Kneeling, he whispered a prayer to the Maker to accept and guard the soul of his brother-in-arms, whoever he might have been. Pausing, he then added a second prayer, that the Maker watch over him in his mission, that he might not share the same fate.

 

-o-

 

Steve lit no fire again that night, though the air was unseasonably chilly. _The wolves of the wilds are clever_ , he could still hear Loki drawling. His shirt, still damp from sweat in his previous exertion, clung to him clammily, and he curled in tightly on himself for warmth.

He did his best to sleep, if only for a few hours, but slumber eluded him. It was the cold, he told himself. It was the memory of the body. It was the whirling thoughts in his head.

It was the silence, heavy and foreboding, like a promise.

 

-o-

 

Something was wrong.

Steve grew more sure of it with every mile. The silence was oppressive, deadening; there was no life here. The foul scent of decay still filled his sinuses after contending with the carcass the day before, and it seemed to cling to him like a shroud. It had to be his imagination that every gust of wind brought with it a fetid odor.

He thought about turning back. The long, sunless days had no doubt turned him around, disorienting him. The previous Templar had clearly found little success in these parts, and he’d do well to take that as a warning.

But Steve had always been blessed with a greater abundance of stubbornness than wisdom. And something was wrong.

He needed to find out what.

The lifelessness here could not be natural. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a place so deserted. Magic? He shivered, wondering if this apostate he’d been sent after was a maleficar, and this was the product of some wicked working. His own movements seemed excessively loud as he bushwhacked through overgrown ferns that reached up to his waist. Whatever it was, there was something dark here. Was that why Loki had sent him here? Had Loki known?

He was torn abruptly from his thoughts by a sound.

A sound that _wasn’t him._

Steve froze. Had it been the wind? His heart had nearly stopped when a branch had fallen from a tree and crashed down through the underbrush, brought down by nothing more than the breeze and age. Only this hadn’t sounded like the wind...

There were stones on the hill up ahead; crumbled masonry and a shattered archway that were all that remained of what may have been a barracks or keep in a lost age, but which the wilds had reclaimed. He’d found evidence of many Tevinter ruins beyond Loki’s small camp, and this looked to be more of the same. He looked around, scanning for signs of movement amid the trees and stones, but all appeared to be still. Had he imagined it? He had little doubt that too long in the place could, in time, drive him mad. Steve was a solitary man these days, but not to this degree. The silence had to be playing tricks with his mind, fabricating sound where there was none... But no. There it was again. A crackling of underbrush. A low growl.

A cry.

Steve’s heart skipped. He _definitely_ hadn’t imagined that, and there was no way it had been the wind. Someone was nearby -- _someone living_.

Somewhere over on the far side of the hill, a roar echoed through the air. _Someone living for now_ , Steve amended with a pang of dread, gripping his shield, unsheathing his sword, and then leaping into motion. He sprinted up the hill toward the ruins as fast as he could, leaping over fallen stones as he went. He’d nearly reached the broken arch when someone -- no, something -- stepped out from the crumbling rocks, axe in hand, and rushed him.

Steve barely had time to register the monstrousness of the creature before he brought his shield to bear against a blow from its axe. It was a bit taller than a man, dressed in scraps of armor, but there was nothing human in that rotting and nightmarish face, eyes milky white and mouth far too wide and full of teeth as it leered and roared, driving Steve back a pace. Steve grimaced, then slammed his shield up into that tooth-filled mouth; there was a satisfying crunch, and he followed it up by ramming his sword through the thing’s middle, the blade sliding easily through the gap between two armored plates.

The creature snarled, but when Steve yanked the blade free, it toppled over like a felled tree. Steve took a step back, breathing heavily, and only just had time to duck as a registered a sword swinging at his head.

There were two more of them now, materializing from Maker-knew-where. One was human-like, the other stouter and dwarven in stature, but similarly monstrous. Steve sliced at the taller one’s legs, darting aside as another swing cut at the air his skull had recently occupied. He retaliated, an arcing blow from his sword severing the creature’s arm. But rather than incapacitating it, he only succeeded in enraging it further. The monster bellowed, drops of spittle flying through the air, and charged Steve, who swung high.

Taking off its head proved significantly more effective.

There was no time to savor victory. The shorter being came at him with a guttural bellow, axe aloft, and Steve found himself backed up against the arch, unable to move aside. Not trusting his sword to parry an axe of that size, he gritted his teeth and lifted his shield, emblazoned with the sigil of the Templar Order, to protect him --

\--And stared as the axe cleaved right through it, the nicked and rusted edge halting inches from his face as metal shrieked and tore. Heart pounding, Steve nonetheless recognized an opening as his opponent occupied itself with liberating its weapon from the wreckage of his shield. He stabbed forward viciously, pulling upward, resulting in an ear-rending shriek before the monster fell backward, dead. Steve slid his arm from the strapping of his ruined shield, pulling his blade free and breathing heavily. He could hear the blood rushing through every inch of his body, his heart hammering.

And somehow over it, he heard a shout to his left. A human shout, not a monster’s roar, and with it more sounds of combat. Straightening up, Steve took one last mournful look at his shield, then headed toward the noise as he crested the hill.

Looking down, he could make out six figures. Five of them were the blood-soaked, nightmarish creatures he’d just fought. The sixth, he recognized with a sinking feeling.

Loki was surrounded. His green cloak was torn and blood dribbled down his right arm, though the injury didn’t appear to impede him as he gripped a staff in his hands, striking out with the ends at any of the beasts who got too close. He looked to be holding his own, but Steve wouldn’t wish five-to-one odds on anyone, especially a man armed only with a length of wood; there were a few additional corpses on the ground with knives embedded in them, but if Loki had any blades left, Steve imagined he’d be using them. Something the creatures had also no doubt determines, as despite the occasional blows from the staff, they crept closer, closing in the circle around their prey.

Steve didn’t even think. There was no time. Instead, he rushed in, drawing the attention of one of the monsters as his plate armor rattled and clanked with the motion. He almost tripped in the middle of his heroic charge, however, as his foot caught on something hard jutting out from the rubble of the ruins; he stumbled, reaching down and grabbing at the offending object only to find it large and round and possessed of a sharp edge. In a moment of inspiration, he pulled it free and threw it with all his might like a discus, catching the approaching beast in the neck with a cracking sound and a dull metallic clang. Another creature broke away from the mob and sprinted toward Steve, spear in hand. He wondered how many he could successfully draw away from Loki in this fashion, one at a time, when he heard a cry of pain ring through the air and felt his blood run cold.

Cold...

The creature in front of him slowed in its rush, its milky eyes widening as it jabbed the spear forward, but the tip never reached Steve. Crackling ice raced up from the ground, anchoring the thing’s feet and creeping up its limbs, its torso, ensnaring -- no, encasing it entirely in ice.

Steve let out a breath, and watched it hover in the still and silent air. Silent -- devoid of any more sounds of combat. He turned, looking for Loki, heart leaping into his throat until he found the familiar dark-haired figure.

Loki stood at the epicenter of a circle of ice, pale and breathing heavily, but not harmed. The three remaining monsters were frozen around him, paralyzed where they stood. Gripping his staff, Loki snarled something and brought the end of the wood down hard on the frosted ground.

The concussive blast that followed knocked Steve flat on his back, driving the breath from his lungs. The air filled with the sound of cracking, crashing ice, thudding and tinkling to the ground. For a moment, Steve lay on the ground, trying to remember to breathe. Then he managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, looking around to find the creatures gone -- reduced to frozen rubble on the ground.

Amid it all, Loki leaned heavily on his staff, a trickle of blood running down from his hairline. His shoulders quaked and it seemed as though the wood might be all that supported him for a moment.

The pieces fell into place, and Steve’s jaw dropped. “You’re a mage,” he murmured, gaping at Loki and the surrounding carnage.

A beat, then Loki looked up at him and smiled thinly.

“Whatever gave it away?”

 

-o-o-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is welcome and greatly appreciated. Aaaaand for anyone wondering what there boys look like...
> 
>  [Click Here For Full Version](https://31.media.tumblr.com/7865fdeadfbd6a07709b1a64042d85ea/tumblr_myjsahdMcK1scwkt8o1_1280.jpg)  
> 


	4. Ball and Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds himself with a mage in his custody, and a whole fresh slew of problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks once more to [Lise](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise) for beta'ing and generally being awesome. To my non-Dragon Age playing readers, I recommend checking out the intro explanation on [Grey Wardens](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Grey_Wardens) as background reading for this chapter.

 

 

Steve tensed, tightening his grip on the sword in his hand and solidifying his stance. This was usually the moment where fight or flight occurred. Some mages tried to beg or bargain or threaten for their freedom. A very small number caved and promised to come quietly in exchange for their lives. Most, however, either ran from him or attacked.

Loki, however, did none of the above. Instead, he knelt and inspected the metal object Steve had thrown earlier, rubbing away some of the grime to reveal a starburst design amid concentric rings. “You should keep this shield,” he remarked with idle congeniality, as if they were in the midst of discussing the weather and not his status as an illegal mage moments before. “It’s old Tevinter make; it’ll last.”

Steve blinked, torn between suspicion and gratitude; suspicion prompted by the unpredictability of Loki’s response, and gratitude for a chance to catch his breath before leaping back into battle or giving chase. He was momentarily distracted by a piece of frozen creature that dislodged from the shattered rubble and rolled to a stop next to his foot. It appeared to be part of a hand, and Steve cringed. “What... were those things?” he asked.

“Darkspawn,” Loki answered promptly, expression souring as he stood and lightly kicked one of the crumbled corpses, already beginning to thaw. “I’ve seen them before but not this many at a time. At least, not in the Wilds.” He tilted his head to one side. “They’re getting bolder and more numerous.”

“Darkspawn?” Steve frowned, regarding the monsters a bit more carefully. “I thought they only surfaced during a Blight.”

Loki’s eyes flitted toward him and held his for a moment, though his expression remained unreadable. He said nothing, and after a moment reached up to brush away the trickle of blood running down from his hairline into the corner of his eye.

Steve felt a slight twinge, remembering the cry of pain he’d heard just before Loki had unleashed the freezing spell. “Are-- are you hurt?”

Loki’s eyes widened and the corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile. “Nothing that won’t mend. Still terribly polite for a Templar, aren’t you?” he said, nonchalantly sucking the blood from his fingertips.

Steve felt himself flush, reminded of his task and chiding himself for being... distracted. “It’s my duty to bring you back to the Circle.”

Loki sighed. “Yes, well. I figured that would be the case. Templar and all, polite or no.”

He seemed so untroubled, so faintly resigned, that for a moment, Steve almost dared to hope this would be one of the easy ones. “You’ll come with me then.”

The hope shattered: “No.” Loki casually walked away from the melting carnage, making his way toward an abandoned satchel he’d likely discarded when the darkspawn attacked. Whatever wave of weakness he’d suffered from moments earlier appeared to have passed, or else he was hiding it well.

Steve frowned and followed. “You have to come in, Loki. You’re an apostate.”

“Yes, and it’s worked out quite well for me so far,” Loki replied, stooping to pick up his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. “I have no intention of being otherwise.”

Steve chewed his lip. He was unused to this level of calm. Ranting, railing, screaming, yes. His career had pitted him against all manner of extreme reactions. And he’d been able to face them all unflinchingly. But calm and polite refusal had simply never been an option before, and the novelty had him treading on unfamiliar ground. “If you knew I was a Templar and you didn’t wish to come to the Mage’s Circle, then why did you help me?” he suddenly blurted. He wondered belatedly if Loki would take offense. But this might also be a way to appeal to--

Loki laughed. “Not out of the goodness of my heart, I assure you.” He leaned against a nearby tree and turned to look back at Steve, his posture languid. “It’s true, I could have quite easily let you die, like the others. And watched.”

Others? Steve blinked, his thoughts returning to the rotted templar corpse by the stream. Had there been more before him? Was Steve just another disposable soldier sent off to disappear?

Loki continued, his easy drawl a contrast to Steve’s tumultuous thoughts: “unfortunately, every time I do so, the Order simply sends another Templar in his place.” He shrugged. “I’d wait for you lot to give up, but your tenacity tends to border on pathological, so I endeavored a different approach. I thought if you survived to go home and tell of your failure to find any such mage, then maybe your lot would be pacified and stomp tramping through my territory.”

It was a practical, if cold explanation. But it failed to quite add up. “If that’s the case, then why did you send me east toward those things?” he demanded, jerking his head toward the darkspawn.

Loki’s smug expression darkened momentarily. “I sent you east. But through some level of incompetence, you managed to go south,” he explained, then added in a murmur, “...and I didn’t know there were so many of them.”

If he had spent the last few days travelling south, then it would explain the bitter chill in the air that made Steve grateful for the weight of his wrecked gambeson beneath his plate armor. He narrowed his eyes. “Alright: if you knew the darkspawn were to the south, then why are you here?”

Loki raised an eyebrow. He reached into his satchel and for a moment Steve tensed, bringing up his sword, but all he removed from the bag was a twisted and pale tuber.

“Elfroot,” he explained. “It grows quite prolifically hereabouts. And a certain injured Templar depleted my supply.”

It was a barbed reminder that he was apprehending a man he owed his life to -- goodness of his heart or no. But not enough to sway him. “I’m sorry. But I have to bring you back.”

Loki’s brows furrowed in a flash of annoyance. “And I am sorry in turn, for I am not going anywhere.”

Steve stifled a noise of frustration. “It’s dangerous. You being out here.”

Loki snorted, looking back at the darkspawn. “I believe I demonstrated that I can take care of myself.”

Steve grimaced. “I didn’t just mean dangerous for you.”

Loki looked at him for a moment of chilled silence. “I’m a danger then, am I?” he asked icily.

This conversation was getting away from him fast. Steve took a breath. “Did you kill the other Templars?”

Loki regarded him for a long minute. “No.”

Steve exhaled. That was... that was good. As long as it was true. Perhaps he ‘let them die’ as he’d said, and maybe he’d forgone helping when he could have, but inaction wasn’t the same as being a killer. “Then we can keep you from _becoming_ a danger. Look, altruistic reasons or not, you still saved my life. I have to believe that means you’re a good person, so please, let me return the favor. You’re not a maleficar yet--”

“Ha!” Loki let out a sharp bark of laughter, turning away from Steve. “You know nothing of me and my ‘goodness’, Templar.”

“The circle is--”

“--A gilded cage, and one I have no desire to rot in for the rest of my days,” Loki hissed. “Besides...” he wandered back over to the bodies and kicked at a block that rolled over and turned out to be a severed head. Or most of one. “I think you have more pressing problems on the horizon than me.”

Steve frowned. “A few darkspawn?”

“More than a few. Or haven’t you been listening?” Loki snapped. “They’re pushing further north. More and more of them. Quite possibly the vanguard for a horde.”

That proclamation set him aback. The idea was bleak to say the least. Steve grew up on stories of the Blights of old, told in hushed tones in candlelight by the older children to frighten the younger ones. Of course, he only had the word of an apostate for it...

“The way I see it,” Loki continued, his voice a now self-possessed purr, “You have two options. You can _try_ to apprehend me and drag me back to your Circle, and I assure you, it will be no easy task. Or you can actually make yourself useful in fulfilling your vow to protect others, and go warn someone about the encroaching darkspawn and potential Blight.”

Steve considered it: the damage that could be done by one mage, isolated and alone in the wilds, compared to the damage of an army of the monsters he just fought.

“I didn’t end up going east, then?”

Loki snorted. “South. South-west, actually.”

“West,” Steve murmured. “So only a few days from Ostagar. There’s still a Warden outpost there, isn’t there?”

Loki’s mouth curved into a victorious smile. “Correct.”

Steve though for a moment, then nodded, leaning down and picking up the shield. The starburst emblazoned on the center was reminiscent of the Maker’s sigil, though not quite the same. He brushed away a bit more of the mud and dirt, then strapped it to his back. “I’m going to the Wardens, then.”

“A wise choice,” Loki remarked, turning to take his leave.

Steve reached out and clamped a hand down firmly on Loki’s shoulder, spinning him back around and looking the mage in the eye.

“And you’re coming with me.”

 

-o-

 

The daylight began to fade after several hours of trekking through the wilds. For the most part, Steve managed to find the routes that wove through dry land, occasionally cutting over fallen rotting logs or circumventing piles of boulders. Now and then, however, there was no clear shortcut across a swamp, and he was forced to wade through the mire, brackish water seeping into his greaves and mud sucking at the soles of his boots. He couldn’t fail to notice the deft way Loki almost skipped across small clumps and hillocks of grass and swamp weeds, leaping from stumps and roots and barely getting his feet wet, despite the shackles binding his hands and limiting his balance.

Steve felt a pang of envy at the other man’s grace. Not that he himself lacked physical prowess, but one could hardly be nimble in plate armor. Between the swamps and the hills and the sore muscles from the earlier battle, he found himself weary and more than a little grateful when the sun finally fell beneath the horizon. “We’ll make camp here,” he announced, gesturing to a small copse of trees where the ground was clear and dry.

Loki shrugged. “Very well.” He dropped to the ground, sitting crosslegged and watching as Steve dumped his pack, shucked his outer layer of armor, and then rifled through the surrounding underbrush for firewood. “Still tempting the wolves, I see?”

Steve grunted as he recovered an armful of dead wood -- there was an abundance of that at least. “Well, dinner’s not going to cook itself,” he remarked, scraping away pine needles and dead leaves with his hands until he’d cleared a bit of a pit in which to lay the wood. He pawed through his pack in search of his flint stone. With two of them to watch, and no sign of the wolves for days now, he was willing to take his chances.

“You know,” Loki remarked while eyeing the tinder, “I could help with that...” he held up his hands, looking meaningfully at the counterspelled shackles Steve had clamped on him earlier.

Steve shook his head. “Not a chance.” He found the stone and set to work trying to light the kindling with successive showers of sparks.

Loki sighed and leaned back. “One would think you’d make use of having a mage in your company, at the least.”

“If I take those cuffs off of you, what’s to stop you from blasting me with fire or ice and skipping back off into the wilderness?” Steve asked with a raised brow. He managed to get a few twigs to catch and carefully shielded the glowing sparks with his hands as he blew on them, coaxing forth a small tongue of flame.

A shrug.  “Not much. But then, even with the cuffs, there’s not much keeping me from grabbing your sword and slitting your throat while you sleep.”

“Is this you trying to get me to chain you to a tree? Because I will,” he said, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice.

The look on Loki’s face was inexplicably one of smug victory as he settled back and made himself comfortable. Steve didn’t even know what to make of that, so he continued to busy himself with the fire. “Besides. I don’t sleep much.”

“Oh?” Loki raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I recall someone sleeping for days after being attacked by wolves...”

“Hurt and sick doesn’t count,” Steve countered, settling back on his haunches with a feeling of satisfaction as flames crackled to life. “In normal circumstances, I don’t need much.”

Loki leaned forward, the firelight casting strange shadows on his angular features. “May I inquire as to why?”

Pulling his pack on to his lap, Steve pulled out the little collapsible cooking tin he made all too many of his meals in, along with a few tubers, edible roots, and a bit of smoked ground squirrel he had left. He set about cutting things up with his knife, trying to gauge what would be enough food to feed two grown men without exhausting their supplies too quickly. “I’ve slept enough for one lifetime,” he muttered. “Don’t really feel like I need all that much more.”

“How charmingly cryptic,” Loki replied, though he didn’t press further. Not that Steve was about to spill his life story to an apostate prisoner, he reminded himself, even if Loki did ask. His job was to bring Loki in, and while he intended (unlike many of his colleagues) to treat his charge with basic courtesy, he couldn’t afford to make friends with him. And besides, as his host, Loki had been reticent and sparing with personal details in the face of Steve’s questions. Now the tables had turned, he was well within his rights be be less than forthcoming.

He set the chopped roots and meat into the tin with some water from his flagon, then placed the entire thing on a rock in the center of the fire to heat. “You know, you’re not really how I pictured a witch of the wilds,” he commented, hoping to steer the subject back toward Loki.

Loki laughed out loud. “What, were you expecting a bit more cleavage?” he asked, eyes gleaming wickedly.

Steve blushed, though the rosy glow of the firelight helped to conceal the color in his cheeks. “That’s not what I -- I mean, yes, okay, you’re male, that’s a bit -- I meant that you seem awfully...” he searched agonizingly for the word, “...civilized.”

Loki quirked an eyebrow. “And you think the witches of the wilds to be savages?”

“Um...” Steve wondered if he might momentarily find his foot somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth. “That’s largely how most of the tales go,” he finally offered, somewhat abashed.

That earned him an eyeroll. “I haven’t spent my whole life gallivanting through Chasind lands like a feral creature, you know,” Loki answered. “And I’m not a witch of the wilds. Lucky for you.”

“Where did you spend it before?”

Loki paused and blinked. “Pardon?”

“You said you haven’t spend your whole life in Chasind lands, so you’re not from the wilds initially. So where did you spend it before living in the wilds?” Steve asked, a bit more clearly this time.

Loki tensed for a moment, then smiled and made a vague, dismissive gesture. “Oh, you know, here and there. Bit of everywhere really. I’m a citizen of the world.”

It explained the fluctuating traces of an accent, at least. Those occasional slips in his pronunciation, occasional variances in his intonation that hinted at something foreign, fluid and, like almost everything else about Loki, frustratingly enigmatic. “How charmingly cryptic,” Steve echoed.

This prompted a more genuine chuckle from Loki. “It’s the truth. Point anywhere on a map, and I’ve likely been there. Tevinter, Orlais, Denerim, Dalish lands--”

“Is that where you got the marks on your face?” Steve interrupted. “From the Dalish?”

Loki nodded, nonchalant. “Some of them. Some of them I got in Rivain. There was a significant amount of Dwarven mead involved, if you must know.”

Steve snorted as he stirred the stew, which was simmering nicely now. It was an amusing story, though there was a meticulousness about Loki that didn’t line up with it. “I’m sure,” he murmured.

“I’m curious; are you always so congenial with your prisoners?” Loki’s eyes shone brightly in the firelight, and while he kept his tone casual, there was something sharp in his gaze.

Steve shifted, checking to see if the tubers had softened yet. The stew was nowhere as aromatic and enticing as Loki’s had been, but it would do. “Well, like you said, I aim to be polite,” he responded measuredly. If anything, he was equally perplexed by how friendly Loki was being, given his situation and his previously expressed unwillingness to go to the Circle. He wondered if the mage had something planned -- if this was an attempt at lulling Steve into a false sense of security, or if he thought he’d escape somehow when they reached the Wardens. “Though I admit, it’s not usually this well received.”

Loki let out a dry chuckle. “Yes, well. I can’t imagine many are pleased to be escorted to their doom,” he said, the edge creeping back into his voice.

Steve sighed. “The Circle’s _really_ not that bad,” he told him. “Three square meals a day, the quarters are comfortable, the view over the water is very peaceful, the library is supposedly the best in Ferelden--”

“-- Don’t forget the constantly looming threat of execution,” Loki piped in. “Is that soup done yet? I’m feeling dreadfully peckish.”

Steve glared, then recovered the soup tin from the flames, pulling the rest of his cooking kit out and spooning some of the stew into a little tin cup before handing it over to Loki. “Templars only do what’s necessary to prevent abominations from getting loose.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you get _no surge of satisfaction whatsoever_ when circumstances allow you to rid the Maker’s earth of one more mage,” Loki said with a delicate sneer, taking the cup and holding it like a talisman between his chained hands.

“I don’t,” Steve answered, frowning. “I don’t want to kill anybody. I just want to protect people.”

“Protect them from mages?” Loki asked icily.

“Mages included.”

Loki snorted. “Funny. I don’t recall asking you for your protection. And I don’t have a spoon.”

Steve blinked for a moment at the nonsequitur. “I only have one spoon. You’ll have to drink it from the cup or eat it with your fingers,” he informed Loki, pulling the rest of the tin towards himself, careful of the hot metal. He was courteous to a point, but handing over his lone spoon was where he drew the line. “And if nothing else, there’s no darkspawn in the tower.”

Loki sniffed and carefully picked a chunk of what may or may not have been carrot out of the stew with his thumb and index finger, scrutinizing it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. “I can take care of myself against darkspawn.”

“Yeah, because you didn’t have five of them ganging up on you or anything back there,” Steve said, voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that would have earned him a smack upside the head from the sisters back in the Chantry. “Believe it or not, I really am trying to help you.”

Silence followed that proclamation, and after several moments he looked up to see Loki staring at him oddly.

“Maker’s breath,” Loki murmured. “You actually believe that, don’t you?”

Steve chewed on a mouthful of stew, working his way through the gristle in the meat as he shifted his weight to a more comfortable position. “I do.”

Loki shook his head in disbelief.  “You’re a fool, Templar Steven.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m not the one living in the Korcari Wilds,” he pointed out.

Though considering he’d taken a demonstrably powerful apostate into his custody on what was supposed to be a mission of reconnaissance, and was now travelling through the wilds with said apostate while deviating in his return to the Tower to instead go meet with the Grey Wardens in regards to a Blight that may or may not be occurring, Steve had to wonder if Loki might have a point.

 

-o-

 

Steve woke with a jolt, breath catching in his chest, a name of an old friend on his lips, though it died on his tongue.

_Died..._

He shook himself, drawing deep breaths to calm his racing heart. Slowly, the tension in his chest loosened, though his nerves still jangled. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but pale moonlight sifted down through the trees, casting a soft gray glow over the clearing. Dawn was likely a ways away, and he knew he ought to try to sleep a bit longer, but he felt too alert. Too awake.

He sat up, stifling a moan at the stiffness of his muscles. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted; he tensed in response, but there was no other sound, save for the rustling of the wind in the leaves. No howling of wolves, which he silently thanked the Maker for. Though it was reassuring to hear sounds of life other than Loki and himself. The fire had died, save for a few blood-red coals half-buried under the banked ashes. A faint amount of warmth radiated from the remains, but not enough to banish the chill in the air.

Steve pulled his cloak a bit tighter around himself.

He really didn’t care for the cold.

His eyes drifted over to his charge. Loki had fallen asleep sitting up earlier, back against a tree and cross-legged. In truth, Steve hadn’t been certain if he’d even been asleep, or deeply meditating, or simply messing with him. Now, however, Loki was no longer sitting up, but fallen over into a small heap, long limbs pulled in closer to his body, curled into a ball under his cloak. It was almost endearing, until the image of shattered, thawing bodies sprung back to Steve’s mind.

Steve could do little in the camp without risking waking him. But then, he didn’t dare leave the camp and leave Loki alone, in case the mage woke up under his own power and bolted. He sighed, looking at the shield he’d recovered from the ruins. Even scouring away the rust with sand would probably make too much noise. Alone, he’d probably have taken the opportunity to go hunting. He and Loki would have to figure out something for food; taking time out of the day to hunt or forage would slow their progress, however, which he didn’t relish.

Really, he wasn’t relishing much of this at all.

In the end, Steve found himself sweeping away the ashes and stoking the faint embers, blowing life back into them and kindling a small blaze back up. It might be a beacon to wolves, but without even a distant sound of howling, he believed them to be safe. And it did wonders to banish the cold from the bones.

On the far side of the fire, Loki snuffled and sighed, rolling slightly closer to the flames.

 

-o-

 

When Loki finally opened his eyes, Steve was almost finished cooking breakfast. It was barely dawn, but he had groat porridge heating up in the soup tin from the other night, and a bowl of berries plucked from bushes within eyesight of the camp sitting in his helm.

“Good morning,” Steve said. “Hungry?”

Loki shoved a handful of tangled black hair out of his face and glowered at him. Which rather set the tone for the entire rest of the day.

They ate in silence, from which Steve gathered that Loki was not a morning person. They broke camp in silence. And for the first hour or so of slogging through swamp, they moved in relative silence.

Steve didn’t mind terribly. It wasn’t the oppressive silence of the dead wood where the darkspawn had been. And truth be told, this sort of sullen quiet was more par for the course with his experience in recovering mages. Loki’s loquaciousness the night before had been frankly unusual, and while some part of him felt disappointed that the mage no longer seemed interested in speaking, part of him was relieved to be on familiar ground -- figuratively, at least.

Literally, he had no idea where they were.

He’d been following the sun where it peaked through the canopy of the trees, taking them in a more or less northern direction. He wasn’t actually sure what their bearing was in relation to Ostagar, but figured heading north would take them out of the Wilds and eventually within sight of the old Imperial towers of the fortress. He thought briefly about asking Loki, but considered the better of it in the circumstances, given the mage’s reticence. Loki’s mood was not a chipper one, and it seemed unwise for Steve to reveal any more weaknesses or disadvantages than he already had.

He tried to focus on anything but the sullen mage. Which proved difficult, since his gaze kept drifting over to his charge, his thoughts dwelling on questions of what the man’s story was. Templar training told him and his brethren in the order not to be invested and not to get too close to the mages they guarded, lest they be compromised in their duty, but with little other company to turn to, this was easier said than done. In the old days he’d had Dugan or Falsworth or Bucky to turn to for company, at least.

They stopped for a rest around midday, collecting fresh water from a stream (this one mercifully devoid of dead bodies), and eating the last of the dried meat and now rock-hard biscuits from Lothering. Loki ate like a bird, but even so, they’d have to figure out something for food as their supplies ran low. Normally, this sort of mission was undertaken by two Templars, and one would forage while the other guarded the mage in their custody. Only Steve’s orders hadn’t been to take a mage into custody; merely to scout out the rumors. But once Loki had revealed himself, there had been little choice. Letting him go would have been a massive failure in Steve’s duties to his oaths, and would have rendered his scouting useless, since Loki would have known himself found out and fled.

And besides -- Ostagar was not so far.

They covered a fair amount of ground in the afternoon. Loki moved swiftly through the swamps and forests and didn’t slow Steve down in the least, and with a better sense of his bearings, Steve didn’t feel that he was going in circles. At least until the light began to fade.

At first, Steve thought he’d somehow lost track of time -- it couldn’t be evening yet, could it? The dimness had overtaken them too rapidly, and the last time he’d checked the position of the sun, it had been nowhere near the horizon. But glancing up at the canopy, he realized it was not the position of the sun, but the trees now obscuring it that had led to the premature duskiness. The trees had grown closer together, tangled boughs and thick cover blocking out the light and leaving the air strangely cool.

Steve chewed his lip for a few moments, pausing enough for Loki to notice and raise an eyebrow at him. “Is something wrong, Templar?” he asked, a hint of mocking in his voice.

“No,” Steve answered, without much conviction. “Do you know how deep this stretch of trees goes by any chance?”

Loki shrugged. “The wilds are vast. I’ve hardly explored them all.”

“Fair enough,” Steve sighed. He briefly thought of backtracking and taking a more circuitous route through a less densely wooded stretch, but now knowing how deep this part of the forest went, he didn’t want to chance adding too much extra time to their journey. Especially when he had news of darkspawn to deliver.

Setting his jaw, he lead the way deeper into the woods.

 

-o-

 

Twenty minutes later, he muttered a tame curse beneath his breath as he walked into a strand of a spider’s web, the invisible gossamer strand catching him right in the face. Behind him, he heard Loki snort.

The thicker growth slowed them down, and Steve now had leaves in his hair, twigs scratching his armor, and nettles clinging to his trousers wherever his greaves didn’t shield him. He used the round shield to push aside branches and forge a path, cutting down dead growth with his sword where it blocked the way.

Within the hour, he’d walked into two more spiderwebs, and Loki no longer snorted with amusement. He’d stumbled into one or more himself and now mumbled something about setting the whole wretched wood on fire.

“Maybe we ought to make camp early,” Steve ventured after he’d nearly poked his eye out by staggering into a branch he hadn’t seen in the thickening gloom. “It’s getting dark.”

Loki sniffed. “If you undid the shackles, I could cast a witchlight.”

It was tempting, but Steve had a lifetime of being trained by the Chantry to resist temptation. “Not happening,” he sighed. “We’ll make camp when we find a good spot.”

Loki made a noncommittal noise, as it he’d expecting little else. They kept walking.

Then Steve walked into the fourth spider-web and cursed less-than-tamely.

“How many of these Maker-damned things--” he stopped abruptly at the sound of something snapping in the forest. “That wasn’t you, was it?” he asked quietly after a moment’s pause.

“No,” Loki answered warily. “Probably just a dead branch falling.”

“Probably,” Steve agreed.

Then something else snapped. Closer. And with it came an ominous clicking noise that made the hair on Steve’s neck stand on end.

“Templar?” Loki’s voice remained impressively even, but there was a hint of alarm in it.

“Stay close,” Steve cautioned, unsheathing his sword and dropping into a fighting stance, peering through the dimly-lit undergrowth.

Another twig snapped. Leaves crunched. Steve’s pulse quickened. And for agonizing seconds, nothing happened.

Then, with a horrible screech, something hairy and bulbous and covered in entirely too many limbs launched itself at him. Steve let out a strangled yell and pulled his shield up just in time for the thing to _crunch_ against it and bounce off with a seething, clicking noise, like rapidly cooling metal from a forge. Steve lowered his shield by inches, enough to see what it was that now attacked them and then feel his skin crawl. A spider the size of a mabari hound shook itself, then skittered back toward Steve, mandibles wide and clacking viciously.

Steve was really beginning to hate the Korcari Wilds.

With a yell, he brought his sword down, severing one of the thing’s legs. It shrieked piercingly, green ichor spouting from the wound, but it only slowed for a moment. Steve staggered back, slamming his shield down and then yelping as the spider wrapped two of its grotesque legs around the edges of it, mandibles clicking over the rim of the metal. Flailing, he swung his sword at it, prompting another scream. Another thrust, and the creature fell away, landing on its back and promptly flipping itself. Steve didn’t give it time to throw itself at him again this time, though -- he stabbed down with his sword, spearing it through the head and holding it fast as it made horrible, ear-splitting noises and then convulsed before going still save for the occasional twitching of its legs.

Steve breathed heavily, pulse thrumming in his ears. It took several seconds for him to hear anything over his own ragged breathing.

Like the soft rustling and clicking that now emanated from every direction.

_Oh, Maker._

“Templar!” Loki hissed, and this time there was panic in his tone. Steve looked up to see hundreds of shining black eyes glittering from the forest around them, as more of the spiders encroached, slowly and menacingly.

“I see them,” Steve said with a swallow.

“Undo my bonds,” Loki murmured, standing back to back with Steve.

“Loki, now is not--”

“You expect to fight them all on your own?” Loki seethed. “Let me help, I can--”

His words were lost in a chorus of shrieks as the spiders attacked, flooding out from the trees and throwing themselves at the two men. Steve slammed one with his shield, kicked another, and drove his sword through the abdomen of a third. But still they came, a sea of hairy, chitinous bodies and gleaming eyes.

Behind him, Loki cried out. Steve whirled around, yanking his sword free from the twitching corpse of one of the spiders, to see the mage backed up against a tree, his shackled hands held defensively in front of him. “Templar!” he shouted, voice shrill with fear. “My magic!”

Steve skewered another spider, kicking it off his sword and slashing the legs from the left side of another, sending it rolling and trying to right itself. “Hang on!” he shouted, making his way toward Loki.

Only then Loki was on the ground on his back, scooting away as a spider advanced on him. His eyes were wide with fear and Steve was still too far away. “Templar!” he cried again, then, in anguished terror: _“Steven!”_

Something in Steve’s chest tightened. Loki was his responsibility; his to contain, and his to defend. He’d promised Loki his protection. And if right now he couldn’t hold up that promise; if he failed Loki in his duty as a Templar --

\-- The least he could do was give Loki back the one weapon at his disposal for his survival.

Steve rammed the edge of his shield into a spider’s gaping maw and shouted the word of power binding Loki’s manacles right as the spider in front of the mage pounced. It then summarily burst into flame, making a high keening noise as it rolled and skittered away and Loki clambered back to his feet, hands glowing with green energy that illuminated a manic grin.

“Behind you!” Steve called seeing another body barrelling across the ground through the trees. Loki turned and threw another handful of fire, which filled the clearing with light and the unappetizing smell of burning spider. Steve in turn bisected another spider with the edge of his shield.

With both of them now fighting, the tide of the fight turned rapidly, and the fear turned to ferocity coursing through Steve’s veins like fire. Twitching, ichor-seeping bodies piled up and Steve pushed forward, driving the few survivors back. When the last of the spiders were either fleeing or dying, he finally turned back to Loki, nearly giddy with the heady rush of victory.

Only for something bright and blue and cold to slam into him and nearly knock him over. Steve gasped, tried to step back, and found he couldn’t move his feet. Looking down, he felt his heart leap into his throat in primal terror at the sight of ice creeping up his ankles, his shins, his knees, _ice, cold, burning, encasing everything, trapping him, holding him in a chill blue tomb forever and ever, frozen in time--_

“Loki!” he choked.

The mage gave a low chuckle. Steve tore his gaze from the rising ice, trying to slow his racing gasps for breath, and met Loki’s eyes. “Loki, what are you--?”

“I thank you for your assistance, Templar,” Loki purred, that wolfish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes back on his features. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways, however,” he added, deliberately dropping the spelled shackles on the ground. “Do say hello for me to any of our friends who decide to make a reappearance.”

Steve seethed with a mix or primordial fear and utter betrayal. “Loki, y-you can’t--”

“Oh, but I can. Thanks to you. Farewell, Templar.” Loki smirked and gave a small, mocking bow.

The ice was up to his waist. Steve couldn’t breathe. “Loki!”

But Loki was gone, disappearing through the trees. And Steve was _stuck, frozen, buried where they wouldn’t find him, not for another seventy years, the weight of an entire glacier bearing down on him--_

The crack of breaking ice snapped him out of his rising panic as a sheet of it slid from his shield and crashed to the ground. Steve gasped for air, trying to clear the spots from his vision. He wasn’t on the mountain. He wasn’t frozen solid.

He wasn’t dying here.

With a growl, Steve pulled at his shield. The ice had encased the bottom quarter of it, but by throwing as much of his weight as he was able against it, he managed to leverage it free, splitting away another chunk of ice. The small measure of success helped calm him; focus him. The ice around his lower body was already wet and melting, and cracked noisily when he struck the edge of the shield against it. Again. And again. Then a large portion of it split away, freeing one of his legs entirely, and with a few more minutes’ desperate hacking, he had the other free.

The relief that washed over him when he was free from his frigid prison was short lived. In its place rose a cold anger and determination. Loki had turned on him, attacked him and left him for dead.

Steve would not let that stand.

He only gave himself a few seconds to collect himself and gasp through the pins and needles before he was moving his numbed legs and stumbling in a near-run in the direction Loki had gone, snatching up the discarded shackles as he passed them. Even in the half-light, the thickness of the undergrowth made it clear where Loki had made his way, snapping aside twigs and trampling dead leaves, leaving a fresh trail for Steve to follow. And if he moved fast...

Steve’s movements grew more sure, his mind more focused. Loki was his charge, his prisoner, his responsibility. And while Steve might not have been the ideal Templar that Ross had hoped he’d be when they’d recovered him from the ice, he still knew his duty and his oaths. And he damn well still knew how to track a fleeing man.

He was getting close. He could hear breaking underbrush up ahead; he was closing in.

Close...

There was light up ahead, an amber glow filtering through the trees where the forest thinned. And Steve’s legs, beginning to tire from the long trek and the fight and the leaden terror of the ice, found new strength, driving him forward even faster in pursuit of his quarry.

He didn’t notice the root until his ankle caught against it and sent him sprawling. He pulled his shield in close, guarding his head as he tumbled down the hillside into the clearing, wincing in pain as he bounced off a tree, scrambling to try to get his legs back under him. When he finally stopped falling and righted himself, his breath was coming hard and his ankle twinged, but the fire of pursuit still burned in his blood...

...Only to sputter and die as he looked up the shaft of an arrow, nocked and pointed right between his eyes.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are cherished and beloved! And if anyone has any questions about the setting, etc., please feel free to ask me (either here, or on my [tumblr](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com)).


	5. (Re)Acquaintance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Lise](http://veliseraptor.tumblr.com/) for being my lovely beta! Recommended background reading for this chapter for non-DA players would be [the introduction on elves](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elf) in the DA setting.
> 
> In which we meet some new faces, encounter some plot, and get some backstory:

* * *

 

 

Steve stared at the arrowhead, his heart in his mouth and his muscles frozen. Slowly, his gaze tracked up the arrow’s shaft, to the hands and then the face of the man pointing it at him.

The elf pointing it at him, more specifically. Steve took in the pointed ears, slighter stature, and the tribal tattoos adorning the man’s face. A face currently set in a deep and murderous scowl. Steve swallowed over the straining sound of the taut bowstring, mouth dry, raising his hands in a gesture of nonviolence. “Uh.. _Atisha_ ,” he said, mind racing to try to recall the few words of Elvish he had learned (and largely forgotten) long ago. He was fairly sure that one meant ‘peace.’ “Aravel... atisha, din harellan?” He said, voice a bit stronger though it climbed in pitch at the end. He sincerely hoped he’d just expressed that he journeyed in peace and that he hadn’t just spouted gibberish, or worse, offense.

The way the elf’s eyes narrowed, Steve had a sinking feeling it may have been the latter. He pulled back slightly further on the bow, and Steve couldn’t help flinching; but the arrow didn’t fly. “Nat?” The elf spoke. “Did you catch any of that?”

“Something about not being a dread wolf, I think.”

Steve tensed at the second, slightly-accented voice, glancing to the side and making out a second figure in his periphery. A woman, also elven from the looks of it, with red hair -- and a knife at Loki’s throat.

The sight of the errant mage sent a tumble of disparate emotions writhing in Steve’s chest. Relief. Rage. Anxiety. Concern, though he wasn’t sure for whom. Loki remained motionless, his head pulled back by the hair and his expression blank, though his mouth quirked in resignation as he recognized Steve’s startled gaze.

“Fucking Shem. You think elves are too stupid to speak Common or something?” The elf with the bow spat, sneering.

 _Dammit_. “My apologies. I meant no offense,” Steve explained, trying to inject calm into his voice when all he felt was rising panic and the urge to kick himself repeatedly.

“Stop messing with the poor man, Barton, before he soils his armor,” the woman chided, sounding vaguely amused.

The elf -- Barton -- waited a beat, then smirked and lowered his bow. Steve let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Okay, spill. What are you crazy shemlen doing out here?”

“We’re on our way to Ostagar to meet with the Grey Wardens,” Steve quickly replied.

Barton raised an eyebrow. “I think you overshot Ostagar by a fair bit, stranger. You’re knee deep in the Korcari wilds.”

“I know that,” Steve said, trying to keep from snapping. “We were heading north.”

“At a breakneck sprint?” the woman -- Nat, had Barton called her? -- interjected.

Steve hesitated. He didn’t want to get into the specifics of what had transpired -- that he’d been tricked into letting Loki free in a moment of goodwill and that he was in the process of hunting the mage down when the elves happened on them. But he didn’t think lying would serve him well either. “There were giant spiders,” he finally settled on by way of an answer. It was technically true, even if it wasn’t technically the answer to why they’d been running. It seemed to satisfy at any rate. “We’re just passing through to Ostagar and on to Lake Calenhad after that. We didn’t mean any harm.”

“There’s a lot worse than spiders around here,” the woman remarked. Her grip on Loki’s hair had loosened and the blade of her knife was no longer pressed against the flesh of the mage’s throat, but she retained an iron grip on his shoulder and the blade hovered nearby.

Loki’s lip curled. “If you’re referring to the darkspawn, then yes, we’re well aware,” he drawled.

How he could be so droll with a knife at his neck, Steve didn’t know, but the Templar sighed. “That’s actually why we’re heading to Ostagar--”

He stopped short. Barton had tensed up when Loki had spoken, and after a mere heartbeat whirled around, arrow nocked once more, only this time pointing across the clearing at the mage. “ _You_!” he hissed.

Loki’s eyes widened a fraction in recognition, but before he could utter a word, Barton let loose the arrow with a loud twang, followed by the immediate thunk of the arrow burying itself in the tree trunk inches from Loki’s head.

“What the hell, Barton!” the woman shouted, and at the same time Steve launched himself forward before the elf had a chance to draw another arrow from his quiver, tackling him to the ground and pinning him under his greater weight.

Barton grunted, squirming, but Steve held him down, pinning him until Barton met his gaze, blue eyes shining with fury. “That man is in my custody,” Steve explained softly, but loud enough to be heard. “He is mine to contain, and mine to protect. If you have a problem with him, I’m sorry, but I will not tolerate you shooting at him.”

Barton’s mouth twisted. “If I were shooting _at_ him, he’d be dead,” he muttered. “That was a warning shot.”

Steve glared at him. “Son, just don’t.”

Barton squirmed for a moment, then relented. “Fine.” Steve immediately backed off, unpinning the man and getting to his feet. Barton cast a dirty look askance at his partner. “Some back-up. Where the hell were you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Watching. Waiting for you two to finish.”

“What the hell was that about anyway?” Steve asked, glancing from Clint to Loki. “I take it you know each other?”

“We were previously acquainted, yes,” Loki remarked, fingering the fletching on the arrow that had barely missed taking out his eye. “We did not part on the most amicable of terms.”

“I gathered that,” Steve murmured as Clint snorted and stood back up.

“You said you were headed to Ostagar because of the darkspawn?” The woman interrupted, her attitude business-like, unfazed by the flurry of near-violence that had just transpired. Steve finally got a good look at her; she was petite, slimly built, her leather armor light and fitted to allow for greater agility. Her vividly red hair was cropped short and curled loosely around a heart-shaped face, with large green eyes and full, pouty lips. Yet for all the delicate prettiness of her features, there was something about the way she carried herself -- the easy, confident grace, the solid set of her jaw, and the unblinking manner in which she maintained eye contact -- that inspired a faint wariness in him. 

“Yeah, I-- we thought the Wardens ought to know,” Steve said. “Loki said there’s more in the Wilds now than he’s seen before,” he added, tilting his head toward the mage. “Seemed like something someone ought to be informed of.”

“Well now we know,” Barton said. “Good work.”

The woman rolled her eyes at him before returning her attention to Steve. “Barton and I are scouts for the Wardens. We’ve been looking into rumors of growing darkspawn activity in the wilds. A lot of the Chasind have been moving their camps further north. We had a bit of a tussle with some unfriendly Wilders the other day, hence our reaction to your... abrupt presence.”

Steve inclined his head. “Understandable. Apologies for alarming you.”

Loki made a noise of disgust and curled his lip. With this reminder, Steve reached for the shackles he’d picked up and stuffed into his belt, looking up at the red-headed elf and jerking his head toward Loki. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” She put her knife away, but kept a claw-like hand tensed on Loki’s shoulder. The mage scowled, but didn’t resist as Steve clamped the manacles back around his wrists. Given there were now three armed individuals surrounding him (one of whom wouldn’t hesitate to take a second shot), running must have no longer been an attractive option. Once they were sealed, the elf let go, and Loki slouched with a rueful look.

“I’m Captain Steven Rogers,” Steve said. “Templar.”

“I gathered,” she replied, mouth quirking in a smile as she nodded at the Templar seal emblazoned on his armor. Steve flushed slightly. Again. “Warden Romanova. And that’s Warden Barton over there.”

Barton grunted, which Steve figured was about the friendliest greeting he was likely to get. “Sorry about the tackle,” he offered, but Barton just waved a dismissive hand.

“Just keep your damn mage in check and away from me,” he grumbled, glaring at Loki.

Steve cast Loki a meaningful look. “What the hell did you do to him?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

Loki sneered. “Nothing permanent.”

“So,” Romanova interrupted. “Darkspawn.”

“Right. Um.” Steve blinked as he tried to remember the fight on the hillside, what felt like eons ago though it had been little over a full day. “There were roughly a dozen, I think,” he said, account for the three he’d fought off initially, the five that had surrounded Loki, and the handful Loki had already struck down before he’d arrived. “About a full day’s walk south of here, near some old Tevinter ruins.”

“What kind?” she pressed. “Hurlocks? Genlocks? Any ogres? Were they using magic?”

Steve hesitated. “I don’t actually know what those are. There were some taller ones and some shorter ones, and no magic I could see other than his,” he said, nodding to Loki.

Romanova pursed her lips. “Hurlocks and Genlocks, then.”

“We killed them all, if that helps,” Steve ventured.

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “You killed a dozen darkspawn on your own?”

Steve shrugged, cheeks prickling with inexplicable embarrassment under her scrutiny. “I got a couple. Loki took out the lion’s share,” he explained. Romanova turned and gave Loki an appraising look; Loki in turn stared back at Steve, brow furrowed, appearing perplexed about something. “He might be able to tell you more than me,” Steve hastily added. Until a day ago, he’d thought darkspawn were monsters of myth.

“I’ve seen signs of more in the southern reaches, though in smaller numbers,” Loki cautiously added, eyes flickering toward Romanova. “More in the last few weeks. Though I’d be better able to indicate where with a map.”

Romanova nodded. “We have maps at Ostagar.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess we probably don’t _need_ to go to Ostagar since we found you two out here. I mean, where you’re Wardens and all.” The idea of sheltering in an actual fortress and not in the wilderness had held a certain appeal, but the detour’s lone purpose had been to inform the Wardens, which they’d now accomplished.

She shrugged. “You’ll have to reach Ostagar anyway to pick up the Imperial Highway north into Ferelden. And our commander always prefers information directly from the source when possible. You can make camp with us tonight and travel with us back to the fortress in the morning.”

“What?” Barton looked up from across the clearing. “Like hell--”

“Clint,” she said softly, cutting him off.

Whatever transpired next was an exchange composed entirely of subtle expressions and glances and went entirely over Steve’s head, but Romanova apparently won the silent argument as Barton’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. But they’re helping with the camp.”

Camp. With adrenaline no longer coursing like fire through his veins and the sun dipping down toward the horizon, Steve suddenly realized how weary he was. It had been a lengthy day of travel and combat, and his legs ached fiercely, though whether that was from exertion or being flash-frozen and thawed, he wasn’t sure. The notion of setting down for the night was an attractive one, and Steve ventured a small smile. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

-o-

 

Barton disappeared into the trees with his bow promptly. Romanova put Loki to work helping her to clear away the rocks and branches in the clearing, brushing away enough dry leaves to make for a campfire, and Steve was sent into the nearby forest to gather wood for said campfire. He returned well before Barton and busied himself with setting up the kindling while Romanova produced flint and tinder from her pack. They soon had a fire started, and Romanova began rummaging through her pack again, this time pulling out a slightly squashed loaf of bread. Steve cringed, recalling his and Loki’s own depleted supplies.

“I’m afraid we don’t have anything to bring to the spread,” he confessed, stomach rumbling at the sight of the bread.

She smirked. “What do you think Barton is off seeing to?” She broke a chunk of bread off the loaf and tossed it to Steve, then another, which she tossed to Loki, who seemed so startled he nearly fumbled it, the chains on his shackles clanking loudly.

“Thank you,” Steve responded, giving a quick and silence prayer of grace to the Maker before taking a bite. The loaf was hearty and flavorful.

“Romanova,” Loki murmured, breaking his silence. “The name is... Antivan?”

“The name and me both,” she replied, carefully pinching a bite-sized morsel of bread from the remainder of the loaf with her fingers.

Steve tilted his head to the side. “Is that where your accent is from?”

Loki snorted. “I wouldn’t talk of accents, Templar. Her King’s Tongue is a damned sight better than your pitiful attempt at Elvish.”

Steve shot him a dark look. “What, and you can do better?”

Loki gave him a smug look. “I have dabbled in linguistics over the years.”

Steve snorted. “Of course you have,” he muttered with a resigned sigh. “Fugitive mage who lives in an ancient ruin in a swamp in the wilds, and speaks half a dozen languages; why not?”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve told you, I’m not _from_ the wilds.”

“So why are you here?”

Romanova’s interruption prompted them both to look up. She popped another morsel of bread into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “I presume the Templar is here in pursuit of you, but why live out in the wilds?”

Loki’s lip curled. “I enjoy the scenery,” he replied, voice dripping with insincerity. “Though while we’re on the topic of personal questions...” he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and grinning, eyes glittering in the firelight, “what is an Antivan Crow doing scouting for the Wardens?”

Romanova didn’t so much as blink in reaction, her expression carefully neutral. “Not all Antivans are assassins,” she remarked, daintily peeling off another piece of bread crust.

“True,” Loki acknowledged with an impish nod. “But _you_ are, if the way you hold that knife is any method by which to judge. If you recall, I had a very up-close view of a demonstration of your skills earlier. And really, the Crows do produce the best caliber of assassins, though the Orlesians are working on giving you a run for your gold in that market,” he mused, nibbling on his bread.

Romanova tilted her head for a few seconds, looking thoughtful, before finally allowing her mouth to twitch into a faint smile. “Fair enough.”

“Wait. You’re an assassin?” Steve reiterated.

“I _was_ ,” she replied with a half shrug. “Now I’m a Warden.” She looked up at him and smirked. “Rest easy, Captain Rogers, I’m not going to slit your throat in the night. I doubt this one--” she nodded to Loki, “--could afford my price.”

Steve forced a half-hearted chuckle, then took a very large bite of bread and chewed it to escape replying for a few moments. When he finally swallowed, Romanova was poking at the fire, kindling the flames higher. “So, is Barton also--?”

Loki snorted. “An assassin? Hardly.”

Steve’s eyes flickered back over to the mage. “What’s the story with the two of you anyway?” he ventured, curiosity winning out over better judgement. _Did you throw an ice spell at him too?_

“I’m sure the tale would depend on who you ask,” Loki said, picking at his bread. It might have been the feathers on the mantle of his cloak, but perched on his heels and hunched slightly forward, he had a somewhat birdlike aspect.

“Right now, I’m asking you,” Steve said.

For a long moment, Loki glared at him from across the fire, but when Steve was all but certain he would have to go to Barton later for his answer, the mage sighed and gave a shrug. “Several years ago, I found myself in the company of a Dalish tribe in the Brecelian wilds, having fled east across Ferelden from some of your more enthusiastic colleagues. The Dalish are a very insular people, but where they worship their old gods, they also don’t have much truck with the laws of the Chantry. I made a positive enough impression with their Keeper that they conceded to allow me sanctuary, despite being an outsider and a human at that.”

“And that’s where you got the tattoos?” Steve interrupted, gesturing to his face.

Loki clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Some of them, yes, but that’s neither here nor there. While I was there, I met another fugitive. A city-born elf who’d run into a spot of trouble with the law in Denerim and had eventually taken refuge with his tribal cousins.”

“Barton,” Romanova supplied.

“Indeed. We were both outsiders in the eyes of the tribe, so we spent a fair amount of time in each other’s company, usually hunting or exploring the forests--” 

“Wait. You were _friends_?” Steve blinked in surprise. “He tried to shoot you!”

Loki smirked ruefully. “You attempted to treat me companionably, Templar, and you saw how that resulted. Are you truly surprised?”

“So what happened?” Romanova interjected.

“One day we found an old temple in the forests, long abandoned. We spent a fair amount of time mapping it out, searching for treasures, or at least seeking to divert ourselves for a time. In one of the chambers, I found an artifact that hummed with arcane power,” Loki continued. “The writing engraved on it was in a language long lost, and there was no indication of its purpose. So in the spirit of inquiry, I activated and used it.”

“What did it do?” Steve prompted, when it became clear Loki was pausing for dramatic effect.

“It was a mind control rod,” came a voice from behind him, startling Steve and Loki both. Steve turned to see Barton approaching, bow slung over his shoulder and two dead rabbits in hand. “And he’s neglecting to mention _who he used it on_.”

The bottom of Steve’s stomach dropped. Mind control was dark and forbidden magic; the kind of thing that branded a mage a maleficar. He’d heard tales of the old Tevinter mages who’d used blood magic to enslave the hearts and minds of their enemies, and the thought had always given him chills. He looked over at Loki, clenching his teeth. “Loki?”

The mage held his shackled hands up in a defensive gesture. “How was I to know what it did? I was merely satisfying intellectual curiosity -- the rod’s function is the fault of whatever long-dead artificer crafted it, not mine,” he pointed out. “I released Barton from its control, did I not?”

“Took your sweet time,” Barton growled, dropping to the ground before the fire and pulling out a rather wicked-looking knife as he set to skinning one the rabbits.

Loki shrugged. “Unfamiliar magic. It took some time to work out the cancellation.”

Barton growled and worked the knife viciously through his kill. “And I bet you just _loved_ having me as your personal meat-puppet in the meantime, didn’t you?”

“If you didn’t know what this artifact did,” Steve broke in, “then why did you test it on Barton?”

Loki scoffed. “I didn’t test it on him. The working in the rod simply latched on to the nearest intelligent mind that wasn’t the user. Amazingly, Barton managed to qualify.”

“Hey!”

“I released him from the enchantment in due time with no harm done. His reaction was entirely excessive,” Loki concluded.

For the briefest of moments, Steve allowed some of the tension to drain from him. It had been an accident. Loki had done no mind control magic with intention, and by his retelling, hadn’t used it to nefarious ends. Surely that exempted him from being labelled a maleficar? As cross as Steve felt with him, he had meant what he said when he claimed he took no pleasure from putting anyone to the sword, Loki included. But it appeared his magnanimous sentiments were not shared.

“You _took over my mind!_ ” Barton snarled, standing abruptly. “Do you have any idea what that feels like? To be _violated_ and _unmade_ like that?”

“Well it’s not like you were using it all that much anyway,” Loki snapped, something dark glimmering behind his eyes.

“Loki,” Steve said warningly, not wanting to see the conversation escalate any further.

But Loki paid him no heed, standing in turn and taking a step toward Barton, his chained hands diminished the threat in the gesture though he towered several inches over the elf. “And you were certainly well-enough recovered to tell the Templars of my whereabouts when they came by.”

“Wait, there were Templars now?” Steve asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Barton replied stonily.

Loki let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, yes, I’m sure. It was pure coincidence that a pair of them picked up on my trail from the Brecelian forest less than a week after you got the tribal elders to run me off!”

“It’s not my fault everyone else was done with your shit!” Barton yelled, taking another step. “And you really think I would do that?”

Loki hissed. “In all honesty? Yes, I rather think you would.”

Barton was livid, knuckles white around his hunting knife. “Why you little-- Just because _you’re_ a backstabbing piece of--”

Romanova intervened a second before Steve, rising fluidly to her feet and circling the fire to place herself between the two men, one hand resting on Barton’s shoulder. “I think,” she said coolly, “we all perhaps need a moment. Rogers, why don’t you and Loki freshen up while Barton and I get the meat cleaned and cooking? There’s a stream nearby in that direction.” She indicated with  a nod.

Steve looked down at his armor, which was still splattered with dried spider-guts, and grimaced. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Let’s go, Loki.”

Loki continued to stare daggers at Barton, but did not resist as Steve pulled him along by the elbow, guiding him back into the trees.

 

-o-

 

It only took a few minutes for Steve to hear the gurgling of the brook. Soon enough they found the running water, the rounded stones forming the banks slick and slippery with moss. The golden twilight was gone with the sun having finally set, but there was still a bit of pale blue light yet for them to see by. Steve found a dry rock on which to shuck his armor, stripping down to his undershirt and breeches and taking the opportunity to check on the almost fully-healed wound on his shoulder. He considered peeling his shirt off and washing the sweat and grime from it in the clear water, but decided against it given the cooling evening air; he had no desire to sleep in a cold, wet shirt. He settled for taking off his boots, rolling up his trousers, and wading calf-deep into the water before crouching down and bending over to dip his hair in the water, gasping at the cold and sending droplets flying as he threw his head back.

Loki was also divesting himself, cloak and boots lying discarded as he undid the lacing on the sides of his armor, allowing him to pull it off despite the manacled state of his hands. The thin linen undershirt remained, since he couldn’t pull it all the way off with his hands bound, but his trousers had no such obstacle and swiftly joined the other items in the pile before Loki waded into the water, clad only in his shirt and smallclothes.

“I’m not taking those shackles off again,” Steve cautioned, still feeling a bit peeved, “so be careful. If you fall in and start drowning, you’re out of luck.”

Loki shot him a scornful look over his shoulder, wading in until he stood in the middle of the brook, water nearly up to his waist at its deepest point, whereupon he began his ablutions.

Steve stared for a moment, wondering how Loki even tolerated the bitingly cold water before shaking himself and turning his attention to his filthy armor, sitting on a rock and pulling over one of his greaves to scour and rinse free of blood and dirt. If he stole an occasional glance upward at Loki as he bathed, it was only to make sure the mage had neither run off nor drowned, and he certainly took no notice of how Loki’s shirt grew transparent when wet and clung to the muscled curve of his back.

Steve found himself focusing _very intently_ on scraping a stain of dried blood from his breastplate.

Soon Steve had his armor thoroughly clean. Loki had waded back to the bank, wringing out his shirt before pulling on his trousers and cloak, leaving his boots and armor to carry. It was fully dark out save for the moonlight, but they soon found the campsite once more by the glow of the fire through the trees.

Supper, such as it was, passed in near silence. Romanova gave them each another chunk of bread and a haunch of cooked rabbit, which left delicious trails of hot grease dripping down Steve’s hands. Loki hunched under his cloak, holding himself near to the fire as water dripped from the ends of his already-curling hair. Barton hung further back, keeping his distance and idly flipping his knife, though he didn’t so much as look at Loki. Steve commented on the quality of the rabbit, Romanova thanked him, and soon they all bedded down. Barton offered to take first watch, Romanova laying down at his side with her daggers and his bow both in easy reach. Loki curled up at the bole of the closest tree, wrapping himself tightly in his cloak, and Steve pulled his own cloak over himself as he used his depleted pack as a cushion, staring into the flames until his eyelids grew heavy.

 

-o-

  
  


_The sky was gray and the wind blew bitterly, tearing at their cloaks as they clambered up the mountainside, the cold air burning their lungs as they strained for speed over the harsh terrain. A few snowflakes drifted down, scattered and small, but the sharp smell of winter lay heavy in the air and heralded the coming storm. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t risk being caught out on the mountain in this weather, but with their quarry in sight after such a long pursuit, he couldn’t turn back now._

_He couldn’t turn back..._

_A robed figure stumbled in the snow ahead of them as the Templars closed in. A small voice in Steve’s mind screamed at him that it was merely a feint, that they need to turn back, that they’d_ die _, but Steve kept going through the motions and picking up speed. He’d already done this before._

_He couldn’t turn back if he wanted to, because he’d already done all of this..._

_He’d done it and he’d seen how it ended. Knew how it ended. With Bucky catching a bolt of deadly magic square in the chest, his eyes going dull and lifeless even as he tumbled backward over the edge of the ravine with Steve screaming his name into the wind. With the ground giving way under him as the mad maleficar brought the mountain down on them. With darkness and cold._

_And ice._

_Ice all around him. Encasing him. Entombing him. Ice creeping up his legs, his hips, his chest, his arms, ice filling his veins and freezing his blood in his veins. Ice paralyzing him as Loki stood at the top of the crevasse, looking down at him and laughing, head thrown back in merriment, his shirt drenched and clinging tightly to his body, soaked in spreading crimson red against the white snow..._

 

-o-

  
  


Steve woke suddenly. He didn’t move, but his eyes opened and flickered back and forth as he tried to orient himself by the dim light of the fire. He remembered where he was a moment later and relaxed slightly, allowing himself to shift and slowly sit up.

Romanova sat cross-legged  by the fire with her chin in her palm as she regarded him through the flames. Barton lay sprawled out on the ground next to her, one hand thrown over her foot and snoring gently.

“What time is it?” Steve asked softly, not wanting to wake the two sleepers.

“A few hours to dawn,” she replied, poking at the crimson coals with a charred stick.

Steve stretched, working the kinks from his neck and feeling something in his back pop. He found himself thinking longingly of his pallet in the barracks back on Lake Calenhad, and nights not spent on the cold hard ground. “I’ll take third watch,” he informed her.

Romanova blinked and gave a noncommittal half-shrug. “You don’t have to.”

“So far we’ve done nothing but eat your food and aggravate your partner,” he said, gaze flickering to where Barton lay. “And I don’t think any of us want Loki taking a watch shift. Really, I don’t mind; I won’t fall back asleep anyway.”

She considered it, then nodded. “Thank you,” she said, uncrossing her legs and extricating her foot from under Barton’s grasp, moving to lie back to back with the archer. “Wake us when the sun comes up.”

“I’ll do that.”

He picked up the charred branch Romanova had been using and resumed the task of prodding the fire with it, coaxing a few tongues of flame from the burned-out wood to fight against the pre-dawn chill. He let his mind wander, drifting calmly and aimlessly as the sky gradually lightened and chirping birdsong filled the forest.

Barton awoke with the first glimmer of the sun climbing over the horizon, Romanova rousing not long after. Loki didn’t stir until Steve shook him, at which point the mage muttered something in another language that Steve was fairly certain was an obscenity. Breakfast was cold and greasy leftover rabbit and fresh water from the stream, and once finished, they kicked dirt over the ashes of the fire and headed back into the forest.

Both the elves moved as swift and light as shadows. Romanova was like a wraith, making hardly a sound as she trod, skirting obstacles as if she’d grown up among these trees. Barton was quick, often moving ahead of the other three or circling back around, in a constant state of agile motion. Loki and Steve, by contrast, seemed to slow the party down. Loki still did not lack for grace, and while he never took an errant step, seemed more inclined to drag his heels, sometimes pausing to inspect a plant or stone. He hadn’t spoken a word all morning save for the muttered cursing, and seemed determined to not so much as look at Steve. Steve, who with his heavy armor and unfamiliarity with the wilds, was definitely the slowest and loudest of the group, cringing with guilt each time he caught his foot on a log or had to extricate himself from a bramble patch the others had nimbly evaded.

If the slower pace caused the two Wardens any frustration, however, they hid it well. That afternoon Romanova even dropped back to tread side by side with Steve, allowing Barton to take point while the two of them took up the rear, with Loki casually sauntering in the middle.

“Guess I’m more of a city boy than I thought,” Steve said with an apologetic shrug.

“You’re still alive after however long you’ve been in the Wilds for. That’s better than many,” Romanova offered. “And Barton was born and raised in a Denerim alienage, so he’s living proof that city boys aren’t hopeless,” she added with a wry smile. “It’s all about adaptability.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Steve ventured, choosing his words with caution, “how did a former assassin and a fugitive come to join the Grey Wardens?”

“Let me guess,” she said. “You grew up with tales of the Grey Wardens as noble heroes; valiant defenders and knights in shining armor, the pure and true of heart holding back the darkspawn to save the realm?”

“Well, I mostly grew up with Chantry stories.” Steve’s stride faltered briefly. “Not that I meant to imply that either of you--”

Romanova waved a dismissive hand. “It’s alright. The Grey Wardens haven’t had much influence in Ferelden in the last two hundred years, I wouldn’t expect you to know much of them,” she remarked, untroubled. “The Wardens have always accepted anyone with the right skills and character, regardless of nationality, class, race... or criminal history. The hero of the Fourth Blight, Garahel, was even an elf.”

Steve nodded, listening. “Is that why you joined?”

She snorted. “I joined because it was better than being dead,” she said. “The Wardens admit anyone, but it’s easier not to be choosy when you’re desperate.”

“Desperate?” Steve repeated, not quite following.

“In the years during or right after a Blight, the ranks are full of recruits. Fresh-faced warriors looking for glory, minds full of stories, drunk on the legend of it all. But in time, people forget,” she explained. “We keep fighting the darkspawn, but not where people can see. Everyone forgets about the evil things that go bump in the night so long as we only fight them in the dark corners of the world. Recruitment goes down every decade until a new Blight threatens, which historically would happen every two centuries or so.” She paused, pursing her bottom lip. “It’s been over four hundred years since the last Blight now.”

“But the Wardens haven’t died out,” Steve pointed out, “so I’m hazarding a guess you have some method of recruitment that still works.”

She smiled. “That we do. After the First Blight, the Wardens were given the Right of Conscription. We technically have the authority to forcibly recruit anyone--” Steve frowned and she quickly continued on, “--but we don’t use it often. Political reasons, mostly. But conscription can be used to recruit someone who might not otherwise be allowed by their circumstances to join.” She paused, then smiled thinly. “Such as a trapped assassin slated for the gallows.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “So when you said you joined because it was better than being dead--”

“The Wardens were a second chance. For me, and for Clint,” she added. “He was sent to Orlais to meet with a Warden Chamberlain there around the time I was arrested. He saw an opportunity, and he made a call. Not a popular one at the time, mind you. But one I have certainly since come to appreciate. Commander Coulson had given him a similar, if somewhat less dire offer two years earlier.”

“Huh,” Steve mused. “I would’ve thought of the two of you, you’d been with the Wardens longer.”

She gave him an arch look. “Why? Because I’m the bossy one?”

He held his hands up in surrender. “You said it, not me!”

That prompted a laugh; a genuine, unguarded laugh instead of one of her careful half-smiles. Steve couldn’t help but smile, but a moment later Loki turned and looked at them over his shoulder in consternation, sobering them both.

“Barton is just a little bit better at taking orders than I am,” Romanova finally said. “Not that that’s saying much.”

They continued walking in what felt like more amicable silence for several minutes before Steve spoke up again. “About the darkspawn... Is that normal? For them to turn up in greater numbers like that?”

“Are you asking me whether or not this is a Blight?”

“I suppose I am, yes.”

She pursed her lips together. “Darkspawn sometimes wander to the surface. Sometimes there are small skirmishes. But the numbers of late speak of something more organized. And even if they didn’t...” she drew a breath through her nose. “We can feel it. I don’t know how to explain it any better, but there’s a kind of unease, deep in your bones. You just know that there’s something stirring in the dark and that it’s coming.”

“Something in the dark meaning more darkspawn?” Steve pressed.

Romanova shook her head. “Darkspawn on their own are mindless monsters. They are vicious and they are cruel, but they are disorganized beasts acting on instinct. It is only when they have awakened an Archdemon that they become a threat.” She turned and looked at him seriously. “The awakening of an Archdemon is what brings a Blight. A horde forms, and with the mind of the Archdemon behind it, can wipe out an entire realm.”

Steve swallowed. “Damn,” was all he could think to say. He thought of the monsters he and Loki had fought in the ruins, then thought of a whole army of them. “So what do we do to stop it?”

Romanova snorted again. “We _Wardens_ do what the Grey Wardens have always done, and fight against the Blight. You, on the other hand...” she shrugged. “Go North, Rogers. Go North, take your pet mage with you, and get as far away from here as you can.” She picked up her pace, moving forward to catch up with Barton, who had circled back through the trees. Loki glowered at her as she passed, and Steve wondered if he’d heard her appellation, or if it was simply on principle.

_Something stirring in the dark, and that it’s coming..._

The thought made Steve’s skin prickle. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his problem; that his problem was the mage standing not five steps in front of him, and that the Grey Wardens were well-suited to do their jobs and defend Ferelden. He would only be in their company as far as Ostagar to do his part by giving his and Loki’s testimony to what they’d seen.

Then, as if on cue, they reached the crest of a hill where Romanova and Barton had both stopped, looking out over the ridge. Romanova smirked and stepped aside as Loki and Steve caught up, giving an unobstructed view of the ravine below, spanned by a long and thin stone bridge leading to an ancient fortress. The walls were old and visibly crumbling, but many of the spires still stood, like swords stabbing up at the heavens.

“Gentlemen,” she announced, “welcome to Ostagar.”

 

 -o-o-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drawing of Clint and Natasha in this setting ([click here for full-res](https://31.media.tumblr.com/eea73c41356764be4da8af7f3a2a51d5/tumblr_mzb8imdsqi1scwkt8o1_1280.jpg))
> 
>  
> 
> Translations:
> 
>  _Shem/Shemlen_ = Elvish word for human/humans
> 
>  _Atisha_ = peace, peaceful
> 
>  _Aravel... atisha, din harellan_ = Steve is attempting to say they journey in peace, they mean no deception/harm/fear, but has mixed up the words _harel_ and _harellan_ , meaning "trickster" or literally, "like the dread wolf" 
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter has a bit more background on the Wardens and Blights for readers not wholly familiar with the Dragon Age mythos. As always, I am more than happy to help clarify anything! Thank you for reading.


End file.
